


Hard To Say

by psilostashya



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: 90s AU, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, No mpreg, OC Teachers - Freeform, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Secret Identity, Set in the 90s, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Suicide mention, Teen Pregnancy, Teen Romance, lowkey angst, metions of teen pregnancy, tagged as underage cause theyre teens, threats of suicide, will add more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psilostashya/pseuds/psilostashya
Summary: Everyone in school is under the influence of a new radio DJ with a stolen station. Someone who didn't think that he would make such an impact, only using the shortwave radio as an outlet for his viewpoints; to go off on tangents against the injustices and hypocrisies taking place in the town's highschool.[Pump Up The Volume AU]





	1. Hard To Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's never easy  
> And it's never clear  
> Who's to navigate  
> And who's to steer  
> So you flounder  
> Drifting ever near the rocks  
> It's hard to say  
> Where love went wrong  
> It's hard to say just when  
> It's hard to walk away from love  
> It may never come again  
> You do your best  
> To keep your hand in play  
> And try to keep  
> Those lonesome blues at bay  
> You think you're winning  
> But it's hard to say sometimes"

* * *

 

 

Slow and steady drag of a joint. His lips parted, letting the smoke roll out of his mouth in billowing wisps. He pushed himself up in his chair, jostling the wheels and making it swivel back a tad from his desk. He balanced the rolled paper between his lips as he grabbed the vynal he had put to the side for that moment and placed it gently on his turntable before starting it up. _Everybody Knows_ drifted through the basement, the baritone voice of Leonard Chohen resonating against the concrete walls.

 

(Christmas lights kept the room lit, casting multi colors on everything it could touch. A bed sat snugly in the corner pressed against the wall, a sliding glass door on the same wall it was pressed against, which led to the backyard— the house built into the side of a hill.)

 

A few little switches were flipped, and some buttons pressed, and the song began playing through any radio that was tuned into the station.

 

He gave it a few seconds, taking another hit, puckering his lips and amusing himself by making smoke rings, before he cleared his throat.

 

“Do you ever just get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up?” another drag, “You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it.' You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools— you name it.” he took another hit, “Speaking of schools. I was walking down the halls the other day— and I asked myself: is there life after high school? Because I can't face tomorrow, let alone a whole year of this shit.”

 

Staying up way past an acceptable bedtime, highschool peers from all across town listened in with rapt attention, ears trained on their speakers, silently agreeing to the words that spoke through to them.

 

“Yeah, you got it folks—” a long and dramatic drag of his joint, before blowing it out on his mic— “It's me again with a little attitude for all you out here and waiting for Atlanta.” he sighed, “All you nice people living in the middle of ‘America The Beautiful’. Lets see, we're on, uhh, 92 FM tonight— and it feels like a nice clean little band so far. No one else is using it. The price is right.” he chuckled lowly, “And yes, folks, you guessed it. Tonight I am as horny as a ten-peckered owl, so stay tuned because this is Craven Moorehead, reminding you to eat your cereal with a fork and do your homework in the dark.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you remember your chemistry textbook?”

 

A nod, “Yes.”

 

“Did you remember your English paper?”

 

He rolled his eyes, “Yes.”

 

“Your lunch?”

 

A sigh, “You’re the one that put it in my backpack.”

 

“Don’t you get lippy with me, Roman.”

 

Roman sighed, “I’m sorry. Can I go now? I have everything I need.” seeing as they were just sitting outside of the school already, he didn't think it mattered at that point, anyway.

 

His father eyed him, “Alright, you can go.”

 

“Thank you!” he exclaimed in exasperation, throwing open the car door, but before he could step foot outside, his father had halted him with a grab of his arm.

 

“You be good now, you hear? Don't need teachers calling home again.” his tone was serious, but wavered in a way that showed genuine concern for the well-being of his son.

 

Roman grinned, “You have my word.” he crossed his heart, if it was sincere or in mockery— that would be left up to debate.

 

His father seemed to have contemplated this, his fist loosening its hold— which Roman took advantage of, slipping out of his grip and out of the car.

 

“I just worry about you, son.” he finally said, eyes cast to the sidewalk in wistfulness.

 

“I’ll be fine.” Roman groaned, dragging the words out overdramatically.

 

In return, an accusatory finger was jabbed in his direction, “It’s that attitude right there.”

 

Roman could of said something back, something that would be snide and snarky, but he knew that it wouldn't get him anywhere. Instead he walked away, giving a little wave over his shoulder. “Bye, Dad.”

 

His father’s mouth worked, like he was about to protest— to continue the conversation further— but he had already hurried off before he could get so much as a syllable out. He walked his normal, everyday path to where his friend group had sat every morning since freshman year. On his way, he thumbed the cassette that lay nestled in his pocket, his heart skipped a beat. He had gotten a hold of it through an acquaintance of his; unable to record it himself; and was buzzing with excitement.

 

Once he caught sight of two of his friends he rushed the rest of the way, a little skip in his step.

 

"Someone's in a good mood this morning." Valerie teased, propped up on the ledge of a small stone wall, textbook in hand.

 

"I think you mean: somebody's loud this morning." Logan corrected, turning a page in his own book.

 

A small, portable boombox sat between the two, ABBA's _Super Trouper_ playing softly from a cassette.

 

"I am in a quite chipper mood today, thank you, Val." Roman said with a smile, nodding to her in an obvious jab to his other friend.

 

Valerie giggled while Logan rolled his eyes.

 

"As much as I," Logan made a flippant gesture with his hand, "tolerate your usual charisma and skylarking—"

 

"English please, nerd."

 

"Valerie and I are currently trying to study," he said, "the two of us have a test first period."

 

Roman resisted the urge to sigh; he knew how important grade point averages were to them— but it didn't change how stupid it was, in his opinion. The two of them had always gotten perfect scores in all their classes (except in art and gym class for Logan, something Roman liked to tease him about), and it was clear they were going to ace this one too. If they didn't, then the test was rigged.

 

"I'm sure you two will be fine," Roman dismissed, "so, anyway. Back to what I was saying—"

 

“Valerie," someone interrupted, "good to see you.” Mr. Taylor said with a grin, making Roman frown, hands on his hips, “I'm sorry for dragging you away from your friends," he said unapologetically, "But you're going to see the principal this morning.”

 

Valerie tensed, her shoulders drawn up as she looked at the man warily, “Can you tell me what this is about?” she asked, "Did I do something wrong?"

 

“We'll see.” he said with a tight lipped smile, grabbing her arm and leading her away from the other two, “Excuse us.”

 

As she was led away she gave a curt goodbye to her friends, confusion still etched on her face.

 

“That was rather. . .peculiar.” Logan noted.

 

Roman watched her go warily, before brushing it off, “She’s probably gotten an offer to go to Harvard or something.” he said with a wave of his hand.

 

Logan didn't look completely convinced, but Roman continued to repudiate it as a real concern, “I’m sure she’ll be fine— anyway," he went on, _"_ As I was saying, before I got so rudely interrupted. . .” he pulled his new, bootleg cassette out of his pocket, holding it like a treasure, “Check this out.”

 

“What is it?” Logan quiered aloud, pushing his glasses up.

 

Roman was beaming as he took out ABBAand popped the other in. (He would take the radio with him and give it to his friend when he saw her.)

 

“It's this guy." Roman gushed, "He's got a pirate radio station.” he hit play, “His name is Craven Moorehead— and he's a total sex maniac.”

 

Logan rolled his eyes and shut his book, “Of course.”

 

“He comes on every night at twelve o'clock.” Roman said, not put off by his friend’s less than enthused reaction. “He says what’s on everyone’s mind; he speaks from the heart— and doesn’t care who hears— because he—”

 

His friend had reopened his book, pretending to read, effectively ignoring him.

 

Roman whined and stomped his foot, “You’re not even listening!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, down to business. I got my wild cherry diet Pepsi— and I got my Black Jack gum here, and I got that feeling, mmm that familiar feeling that something rank is going down up there. Yeah, I can smell it.” he breathed into the mic, “I can almost taste it. The rankness in the air. It's everywhere. It's running through that old pipeline out there, trickling along the dumb concrete river and coming up the drains of those lovely tracktones we all live in. I mean, I don't know. Everywhere I look it seems everything is sold out.”

 

A Honda NSX pulled into the clearing, only a few yards away from another, more beat up car.

 

“They say this is where the reception is the coolest.” the girl explained to her boyfriend, turning the knob on the radio.

 

“Then he'll probably live right around here.” he said back, twisting another dial to turn up the volume.

 

Sliding his sunglasses down (that were definetley not needed so late in the night) and eyeing the newcomers, Remy gave a slight grimace, “Fucking yuppies.”

 

“My dad sold out. And my mom sold out years ago when she had me. And then they sold _me_ out when they brought me to this hole in the world.” he simpered, “They made me everything I am today, so naturally I hate the bastards. Speaking of which, I am running a contest on the best way to put them out of their misery.” laughing, he shook his head, dark locks falling in front of his face.

 

“Tonight we have number twelve of one hundred things to do with your body when you're all alone.”

 

Laying on his bed, Roman rested his chin on his palm, staring at his radio intently as he gnawed on his lip, a pen balanced between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“Now; are you ready for the incredible sound of Craven Moorehead cuming on his own face?” he chuckled, then gasped, “Oh, my God, it's very possible you know.” sighing, the sound of exaggerated slapping met the ears of whoever was listening, “Oh— oh this is a champion one. I'm going for it. He's still growing. This. . .” he moaned, “Yes, Craven Moorehead will go to any length to keep his three listeners glued to their radios. But the question is: how far will you go? How far can you go to amaze and discuss the sensational Craven Moorehead. I mean. How serious are you? I ask you _that_ , dear listener.”

 

The pen meets paper, writing in cursive, expressive swoops of ink.

 

“I'm getting a lot of letters here, guys.” crinkling of paper, “Here. _Dear Craven Moorehead, my boyfriend won't talk to me anymore. How do I show him that I really love him?_ Look, I don't know anything about these letters asking for love advice.” a chuckle, “I mean, if I knew anything about love— I would be out there making it instead of talking to you guys.”

 

He began murmuring to himself as more rummaging could be heard, “So just send me stuff to box 20710, USA Mail Paradise Hill Mess Arizona 84012. Replies guarantied.”

 

He cleared his throat, “ _Dear Craven, I think you’re boring and obnoxious, and have a high opinion of yourself. I think school is okay, if you just look at it right. I like your music, but I really don't see why you can't be cheerful for one second._ I’ll tell you since you asked,” he began.

 

“I just arrived in this stupid suburb. I have no friends, no money, no car, no licence. And even if I did have a licence all I can do is drive out to some stupid mall. Maybe if I'm lucky, I’ll play some fucking video games, smoke a joint and get stupid.” he threw up his arms, despite no one being able to see it, “You see, there's nothing to do anymore. Everything decent’s been done. All the great themes have been used up. Turned into theme parks. So I don't really find it cheerful to be living in a totally exhausted decade where there is nothing to look forward to and no one to look up to.”

 

It went silent.

 

A deep groan broke the tension, “That was deep— oh no, not again. The creature stirs,” the sound of slapping, “Oh God, I think it is going to be a gusher. This is the sixth time in an hour.” he moaned, “Oh God. . .”

 

“He sounds like he chronically masturbated.” the girl said, hiding her smile and light blush behind her hand.

 

“He prides himself on it.” her boyfriend said.

 

“You see, I take care of it. Oh, or else I'm going to explode. I just. . .” a soft sigh, “Excuse me while I. . .while I. . .while I. . .oh yeah. . .oh yeah. . .oh yeah, this is the big one. I'm gonna' explode. . .oh, take cover Arizona here I come.”

 

“Any time now, man.” Remy tsk’d while stirring the contents of a paper cup.

 

“Oh God. . .oh God. . .this is the best. Oh God yeah. . .free at last,” a long moan, then followed by a sigh, “I'm beat. I'm whipped. It's quitting time. Gotta' recuperate.”

 

Remy gestured to the silent radio, “There he goes. Sometimes he's on for five minutes, sometimes he's on for five hours.” he shook his head with a smile, “That's my man.”

 

 


	2. Head Over Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've already won me over in spite of me  
> And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet"

* * *

 

 

“God, I feel so out of touch here.”

 

“We didn't move out here to stay in touch, Isabella.”

 

She gazed at her husband, “And, why _did_  we  move  out here?”

 

“Oh, because it's a nice place to live. I'm making good money and I'm the youngest school commissioner in the History of Arizona.”

 

The basement door creaked open on its hinges, slowly, to not alert the two that sat at the dining room table.

 

“Howard, you know what?” she scrunched up her nose, “The man I married loved his work. Not power and money."

 

Carefully, creeping towards the refrigerator, avoiding the tiles that groan.

 

“That's all right, I still love my work.” Howard said with a smile, “And I love power and money.”

 

“Young radical brain, you were always fighting against the system.” she sighed wistfully, "And now you are. . .”

 

“I am the system, yeah.” he snapped his head towards the kitchen, “Is that a beer?”

 

“Sure!” their son spun around and gave a faux smile, Dr. Pepper in hand. His smile dropped into a parted lipped frown; he popped the can’s top and walked off.

 

His mother watched his back as he went, “Have you noticed his behavior lately?” she asked her husband.

 

“What about him?” he questioned.

 

Isabella frowned, “He's just so unhappy here.” she looked at him with furrowed brows, an expression that left no wiggle room for an argument.

 

“I'll go talk to him.” he relented.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Virge.” Howard eyed him suspiciously, having found his son in his own study, “What’s up?”

 

A shrug, “I was just looking for some stamps.”

 

“Oh, fine,” he pulled an envelope out of his desk drawer, “I got some right here.” he handed it over, “Sending a letter to one of your friends back east?”

 

His son snorted, “No, I thought I might send away for an inflatable date.”

 

Howard scowled, “You know, one of these days you're going to have to watch yourself, young man.” his voice held authority, but with a condescending edge that his son just _loathed_ , “You know when I was your age I was in all the teams and a bunch of clubs. Look— all I'm saying is that school must have some really terrific programs, it's very highly rated.”

 

“Just save it for the masses.” he waved his father off, “Because I don't wanna hear it.”

 

“Virgil, they've got twelve hundred students down there. Surely _some of them_ have gotta be cool.”

 

Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose, “Look,” he gave a pointed stare to his father, “the deal was: I get decent grades, and you guys leave me alone.” with that, he turned around and walked out of the office, his father fuming silently where he stood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay,  so  who  is  this  guy?” Brittney huffed out in a laugh.

 

“I don't know,” Roman shrugged, dodging a fellow student as they walked the halls, “ _nobody_  knows  who  he  is; but he really hates this school, so I guess he goes here.”

 

“But all the guys that go here are geeks.”

 

“Maybe not, my dear!” he chortled with a wave of his hand— because clearly that statement was false, if one of those guys really did happen to be Craven.

 

Roman would give almost anything to just know who he really was. The guy was so intune with everyone’s thoughts and how they were feeling. Down to earth, insightful, poetic, idealistic— the list went on; and Roman had spent countless moments to himself listing these qualities (and more often than not they would get inappropriate), It was strange that someone with all of those characteristics would fly under the radar so easily. But he did say he had just moved to Paradise Hills, Roman reminded himself. And he did say that he had no friends. . .so that narrowed things down. There couldn't have been too many new outcasts. Or just new kids, for that matter. It wouldn't have been difficult to weed through his peers and pick out the infamous Craven Moorehead, surely.

 

He tilted his head up, eyes cast to the ceiling, “Later. . .”

 

Brittney looked at him with narrowed eyes, “Later?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _Sweat beaded down her forehead, leaving a clean trail as it swept dust and dirt. The sun began to fade away, until there was nothing left of them, and they disappeared from the face of the earth._ " the english professor finished, sitting the paper back on her desk, "Hmm, pretty good, Virgil. Leading with your heart, not your mind." she tilted her head, "I wondered if you would tell us what you were thinking when you wrote this?"

 

Virgil was shrunk back in his seat, his mess of curls covering his eye. He shrugged in faux indifference, "I just wrote it late last night."

 

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of eyes on him. He subconsciously swept over the faces of his classmates, before falling on a specific, heart stopping one. Roman was staring at him (so was almost everyone else, but they didn't make his palms sweaty like Roman did). Any other time Virgil would of snapped his eyes away (or glare until the other relented), but Roman wasn't just _looking_ at him. He had an expression on his face that made Virgil shiver; why was he looking at him as if he knew something? As if he knew Virgil inside and out, like the back of his hand? Or maybe Virgil was putting too much thought into it-- too much thought on how his lips were upturned in a soft— almost unnoticeable— smile, how his eyes crinkled in the corners, how his golden skin just _glowed_ and just. . .just how _pretty_ Roman Prince was.

 

Roman’s soft smile morphed into a smirk, his brow arching slightly.

 

Virgil swallowed hard.

 

Mrs. Williams tapped her long nails against the mahogany desk, snapping Virgil into the realization that he had been (practically) having a staring contest with the other boy. His eyes stayed glued to his teacher, his face on fire in a way that made Virgil want to curl up in the corner and cry.

 

"That's obvious, it's practically a night book." Mrs. Williams eyed him (not unlike Roman, making him feel as if she was peering into his soul), "Virgil, I was hoping you'd share your feelings about it."

 

Virgil’s leg began to bounce. He became hyper aware of everyone else in the room, most of which were scorning him— no doubt in disapproval. He could have sworn he was going to combust— if it wasn't for the loud ringing and all the students jumping out of their seats as they rushed to the door.

 

"Saved by the bell." the teacher clicked her tongue.

 

Virgil shoved his books in his bag and threw it over his shoulder. He shuffled to the door, head down as he hoped in vain that he could leave without any more potential heart attacks.

 

"Don't  think  If  I  didn't  read  your  composition  it  wouldn't  have  been  read."

 

His teacher stood just shy of blocking his only way out.

 

"Virgil!” she implored, “We're looking for new writers for The Clarion." she handed him his paper, a soft, almost maternal smile on her features,  "Don't be embarrassed of your talent."

 

He nodded dumbly, quickly by-stepping her and ducking out of class.

 

Only once free from that hell did he spare a glance at his paper. A big one-hundred written in the top right corner. He shielded his face with the sheet, face still red.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hurry!”

 

“Shut the fuck up!” Remy slipped his tape into the player and hit play, before scurrying back to his seat.

 

His friends cackled and followed suit, sitting at their desks and putting on masks of innocence.

 

Laughter flowed through the classroom, Craven Moorehead playing through their teacher’s surround sound.

 

Mr. O’brien stepped into class just as the radio DJ began to cry out obceinly: “Oh fuck! Oh God!" the recording cried out, "Ahh. . .Jesus Christ!”

 

“What the Hell?” O’brien shouted, his face red.

 

The students doubled over in laughter, none able to keep a straight face.

 

Their teacher ejected the tape, “I'm not stupid you know.” he held it up for all to see, “And I’m confiscating this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

As far as teacher lounges went, Sanders Side High’s was nothing special. The walls were off white (because of how long it has been since the last time it was repainted), and the carpet was thin and worn, fraying at the edges where it met the wall; there was a mysterious stain in the corner that no amount of carpet cleaner could get out; and there was a short supply of chairs, those few chairs being rickety and untrustworthy, most of the time teachers chose to lean against the counter or table instead of risking it.

 

“This school is judged on one category only: academic scores.” Howard said with a tight lipped frown, glaring into his coffee mug as if it personally offended him, “The lesson of modern education is that nothing comes easily, no pain, no gain.” he crossed his arms and leaned back, him being one of the few that sat in a chair.

 

Mrs. Williams didn't comment, but the other staff members nodded along to what was being said. Rebellion among the students was becoming more and more frequent, Howard (or Mr. Macintosh) had just busted a young man for urinating in the drinking fountain.

 

The staff was getting restless, running out of ideas to cease the madness that kept spreading, infecting their once peaceful school.

 

“Excuse me, everyone” everyone turned to Mr. O’Brien, who just stepped into the room, “You’ll want to listen to this.” he stepped over to the tape player in fast strides, “it's the third this week. It's unbelievable.”

 

Loud grunts and groans with an occasional _ah fuck_ met the ears of the teachers.

 

Mrs. Williams snorted, covering her mouth right after to hide her smile.

 

“This is no laughing matter!”

 

Her shoulders shook with her chuckles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The school’s teachers’ lounge may have been shit, but the library was something else entirely. Rows upon rows of bookshelves, each one packed to the brim with textbooks, novels, encyclopedias, and everything in between. The school was so overstocked in books, there were stacks that littered the floor, no room on the stockpiled shelves. It was too bad that most of the covers were caked in dust, nearly no one coming to the library willingly. Which made the place great for studying, silent with no one to bother you— but it made an even better hiding place, silent with no one to bother you.

 

When Virgil had first found the sanctuary it had immediately became his favourite place to hide, his safe haven for when he wanted to cut class, and he came here for lunch too (tucked away in the corner behind a shelf with his PB&J, his typical afternoon since moving here).

 

He would spend the time hiding, either reading or writing, and sometimes he would stay a little after school, shielding himself from his parents and responsibilities with fictional worlds— that he either found in the pages of one of the many books, or ones that he created himself.

 

Today he had read all through study hall, leaving him with only a few minutes to turn his book in and make it to his next period.

 

(He could of skipped, but he didn't think he could forge another note without it being too suspicious.)

 

Virgil sat his book down at the front desk, eyes trained on the clock as he did so.

 

"Hi!" a familiar voice ( _dangerously_ familiar) greeted him. A voice he had only ever heard from afar, admired from afar— never this close or clear.

 

Virgil’s gaze snapped to the person who stood on the other side of the counter, eyes locking with the same pair as earlier; only now that they were closer he was able to see more clearly. Bright and expressive; green with specks of gold surrounding the pupils; and staring right into Virgil’s psyche. He shook that accusation away and schooled an (unconvincing) expression of aloofness on.

 

"Hi. . ." he mumbled back, shifting uncomfortably where he stood.

 

The other’s grin grew toothy, perfect and charming. He leaned his elbows against the counter, the one thing that divided them. He pointed his finger at him, head tilted to the side, his chestnut hair falling to the side with the movement. "You're in my writing class, right?" he asked.

 

(Though it was quite obvious he knew the answer to that question, and that he knew Virgil knew as much too.)

 

Virgil nodded stiffly, "Right."

 

Roman perked up, extending his hand out, "I'm Roman!"

 

Virgil didn't have the nerve to say that he knew— that he knew his name since his first day. But in Virgil’s defense, it was hard _not_ to know his name, with how loud and charismatic as he was, practically shouting to his friends as he walked from class to class. And getting more than a handful of warnings in the classes he shared with him for talking too much; but he almost always got away with it, putting that name: Prince, to the test, charming anyone who listened to him. Just as he was charming Virgil in that moment.

 

Shaking with nerves, Virgil quickly wiped the sweat off his palms and onto his pants before clasping it with Roman's. "Virgil."

 

The contact was quick, just palm meeting palm in a fast embrace, setting tingles up Virgil’s arm and down his spine. He had the temptation to reach out and lace Roman’s fingers with his, and just hold him there, soaking up the warmth of his flesh— but he didn't, of course.

 

"Yeah, I like Williams, she's pretty funky." Roman said, unaware of how the prolonged talk made Virgil feel closer, and closer, to a panic attack (or if he did, he didn't show it).

 

"Now you're in trouble!” he exclaimed, making Virgil jolt, his shoulders tensing, “. . .You owe me twenty five cents. "

 

Virgil sighed through his nose, body still rigid. _Right._ He dug in his jean pockets and pulled out his loose change.

 

“ _How To Talk Dirty And Influence People_ by Lenny Bruce.” Roman read off the book cover. “Who's he?” he pressed, “Any good?”

 

He shrugged, setting the quarter on the counter, “He's alright.”

 

Roman swept his eyes over him; Virgil willed himself not to flinch again, “Talk a lot?”

 

“Not too much, no.” he said, then swiftly skittered away with his tail between his legs.

 

Roman watched him go, and once he was out of earshot he let his giggle slip free. He pulled his yearbook out from under the counter, and a red pen out of his pocket. It didn't take long to flip through the pages and find what he was looking for— and once he did, he uncapped his pen and circled it.

 

“. . .So cute.”  

 


	3. Welcome to Der Weinerschnitzel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to Der Weinerschnitzel  
> May I take your order please?"

* * *

 

 

"Valerie? Yeah, Hi!" Roman leaned his body against the wall, twirling the phones cord between his fingers. "Are you feeling alright? I haven't seen you since Mr. Taylor swept you away on Monday."

 

" _Oh. . .yeah, I'm sorry about that_." she murmured, not sounding like herself at all.

 

"Really it isn't me you should be apologizing to— Patton was having a hissy fit he was so worried." he laughed but it fell short when he didn't hear anything back. "Are you still there?"

 

" _Yeah,"_  she said, _"I'm still here_."

 

"So. . .what happened? Are you okay?" Roman asked in sincincere concern, "Catch a cold or something?"

 

" _No. . .I._ . ." she sighed, the sound coming out strained. " _Can I tell you something? Something you can't tell anyone else?_ "

 

Roman stiffened. He passed the phone to his other hand and straightened up to get more comfortable. "Of course, you can trust me."

 

" _You can't tell anyone. Not even Patton, or Logan, or—_ "

 

"Okay." Roman cut her off.

 

The rambling and unmasked panic in her voice was so unlike her, it made Roman's skin crawl in discomfort.

 

"You can tell me."

 

" _Okay I— I. . .you— do you remember that party we went to last month? The one at Bobby Afton's?_ "

 

"Bobby Afton? Yeah I remember." he snorted, "I also remember the way he was practically _drooling_ all over you." he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

 

The line went quiet again.

 

"Val?"

 

" _I gotta go. I'm sorry— I just— I'll talk to you later_."

 

"No, wait! Valerie I—"

 

She hung up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Guess who?” Craven cooed into the mic, his smooth voice caressing the ears of his loyal listeners, “It's ten o'clock, do you care where your parents are? After all it's a jungle out there."

 

He leaned forward on his elbows, head propped between each hand, "I don't know. Everywhere I look it seems that someone's getting butt hurt by the system." he jumped right into a tangent, as it usually went, "Parents are always talking about the system; and the sixties and how cool it was. Well look at where the sixties got them! _Come on people, now smile at your brother— everybody get together— try and love one another, right now!_ " he scorned.

 

"Now that was the sixties," he popped in a tape deck, "this is a song from the eighties by my buddies the Descendants."

 

_Welcome to Der Weinerschnitzel_

_May I take your order please?_

 

Everyone, including Craven himself, leaned towards their speakers.

 

_Yeah, I want:_

_Two large Cokes, two large fries_

_Chili-cheese dog, large Dr. Pepper_

 

Everyone jolted back by the loud, vibrating shouts of the musician.

 

_Super Deluxe with cheese and tomato_

_You want Bill sperm with that?_

_NO!_

 

They all laughed and regathered themselves, subconsciously turning down the volume to not get startled again.

 

Craven chuckled, then shrugged, "I hate the sixties, I hate school, I hate principals, I hate _vice_ principals! But my true pure refined hatred is reserved for _guidance counselors._ " he sibilated the last part, emphasizing his distaste.

 

“And Craven Moorehead just happens to have, in his very hands, a copy of a memo written by Mr. Travis Taylor, guidance counselor extraordinaire, about one Miss Valerie Torres, to our _lovely_ high school principal.” he cleared his throat and began to read aloud in his best impression of Mr. Taylor, condescending and unnecessarily nasally, " _I found Valerie_ un-remorseful _about her current condition_. _And she's unwilling to minimise its effect on the morals of the student population._ " clicking his tongue, he shook his head, "The bastard can't even say she's knocked up."

 

He groaned, “Guidance counselors! If they knew anything about any other career, would they have ended up as guidance counselors?”

 

Craven threw himself back in his chair, arms crossed and mouth set in a firm line. His sulking didn't last long, his eyes catching the trimline corded telephone that sat on his desk. Straightening up his posture, he grabbed the folder with the stolen documents— and let a devious grin stretch across his face. “What do you say we call Taylor up, huh?” he ran his finger down the rows of numbers on the paper, “Craven Moorehead just happens to have the home phone numbers of every employee up at Sanders Side High.” his finger stopped, then tapped the one he was looking for.

 

He almost began to hum, completely pleased with himself while he punched in the numbers on the dial pad. Craven hit speakerphone, practically buzzing in his seat with glee.

 

"We'll just see what are good buddy is up to, won't we?"

 

The line picked up, a well known voice coming through, _“Taylor residence, Travis Taylor speaking.”_

 

“Hey, this is WKPS, we're doing a piece on high schools.” for a second Craven had to bite his lip to stop a giggle, “We understand that you're a guidance counselor.”

 

 _“I'm head of guidance at Sanders Side High in Paradise Hills Arizona. I've been there seven years.”_ the teacher responded, a proud tilt in his voice.

 

"Can you tell me a bit about what you do?"

 

“ _I run a comprehensive American values program."_ he paused _. "In which we discuss ethical situations, sex education and drug abuse.”_

 

"What do you say to young people who look around at the world and see it's become, like you know, a sleazy country, a place you just can't trust. Like your school for example. Why is it that it wins all of these awards— and yet students are dropping out like flies, why. . .why is that?

 

"Now,  my  listeners  are  interested  in  the  decision  to  expel  Valerie  Torres."

 

_“I’m, uhm, I'm not so sure I’m aware of anything like that— I don't know what you're talking about.”_

 

“Now, _sir_." he nearly sang, "We know that’s not true. _Valerie refuses to accept suggestions of a more positive mental attitude towards her health and her future_ ," Craven read off of his paper in the same impersonation as before, " _I'm afraid I find no alternative, but to suggest suspension._ "

 

_“Who is this? How did you get this number?”_

 

“So you’re not gonna admit it?” Craven asked in clear distaste.

 

 _“Admit what?”_ The other shot back challengingly.

 

“That you're trash!” he shouted through the phone so loud it crackled with static on the receiving end.

 

_“Now you— you just wait a minute!”_

 

He didn't wait a minute, or a second for that matter, "You interview a student and then you rat on her, you betray her trust, isn't that right, _Sir_! Well as you can see, these guys are played out. Society is mutating _so_ rapidly, that anyone over the age of twenty has really no idea—" his ramblings were cut short, the loud sound of the counselor's line going dead shaking him back. "Err. . .alright, back down to business, I guess."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Damien, have you finished your homework yet?" the young boy's mother asked in a sickeningly sweet tone, her head poking through his bedroom door.

 

Damien's hand shot out, twisting the knob on the radio to silence it. "Yes." he answered curtly.

 

She nodded and glanced around the room, her eyes falling back on her son, "Your father and I are downstairs, why don't you come and join us for once."

 

He bristled, his shoulders hunching up. He turned his back towards her, "No."

 

She huffed and rolled her eyes, "Okay, Damien, have it your way."

 

The bedroom door slammed on her way out.

 

"Thanks." he muttered to no one.

 

He turned the volume on his radio back up, immersing himself back into the words of the infamous DJ. The only thing he really had for company anymore, which doubled as an escapism for him. A way to get away from the people and self inflicting thoughts that tormented him.

 

 


	4. No Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All I can say is that my life is pretty plain  
> I like watchin' the puddles gather rain  
> And all I can do is just pour some tea for two  
> And speak my point of view but it's not sane  
> It's not sane"

* * *

 

 

"I fucking hate Dragão."

 

"Language!" Roman's dear friend, Patton, scolded him.

 

Roman crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth's seat, a prominent pout on his lips. "She's a bitch." he murmured.

 

Any other student in Sanders High would be nodding their head in agreement to Roman’s claim. Mrs. Dragão, the school principal, was by far the biggest bitch to ever breathe. The woman had written more referrals than anyone could count, and had given detention just as much. She was always quick to call a student out on dress code, with only a glance to the one she’s addressing. She had a nose for finding kids without a hall pass, somehow everywhere at any time, just waiting to pop out behind a corner— her hand out, palm up, lips wrinkled in a frown. But those were the little things, the things that could be written off as ‘just another strict teacher’. Dragão was something different.

 

But no.

 

She fed off of making her students suffer. Just last week she interrogated a student (for something they didn't do) and wouldn't let them speak for themselves. Whenever the kid got a syllable out Dragão would cut them off and filled their mouth with words that they didn't say— that they had no chance to say. The kid couldn't take too much of it before they began to cry; and Dragão had apparently heard enough— because they were expelled later that week for something entirely unrelated. That was why you had to be ever so careful around her those days, any slip up too big— and you were out. Donezo. Was it legal? Probably not, but it wasn't like anyone could do anything about it. Who would listen to a bunch of troubled teens, anyway?

 

"Even though I don't appreciate your usage in swears.” Logan said, “I do have to agree with you."

 

"Logan." Patton said in a warning tone, pointing a french fry at him from across the narrow table, "Don't encourage him."

 

"But she is a bitch!" Roman shouted, causing a few people to turn and stare, "I bet she was in on getting Val expelled! Her and Taylor are such— such—" he growled and threw his hands up in aggravation— "You know!"

 

"A pair of deplorable geezers with no business in deciding how one should, or shouldn't, live their lives."

 

"Yeah." he nodded, "Yeah that."

 

"Guys," Patton called softly, his eyes downcast to the puddle of ketchup on his hamburger wrapper. "Valerie's pregnant."

 

They all fell silent, poking glances at each other to try and gauge some kind of reaction. 

 

"Yes." Logan licked his lips and pushed up his glasses. "Well frankly I think it was no right of that stuck up radio DJ to—"

 

"Stuck up?" Roman glared at him with narrowed eyes, "I think you better slow your roll, Microsoft."

 

Logan straightened up, his hands folded over on the tabletop. "That 'Craven' had no authority to say what he did. He's rash and irresponsible— he clearly doesn't realize the effect that he has on people!"

 

"He defended Valerie! He called Taylor out! He calls all of the fucking staff members out on their bull shit—"

 

"He told everyone that Valerie is expecting— something that is incredibly personal. She should have been able to tell people when she was ready, if not at all."

 

Roman pursed his lips. He hated it when that poindexter was right— but especially in this case. Roman thought back to the last time him and Val had talked. Was she going to tell him then? Did she want to? (Or did she even know yet?) He hated not knowing things; he hated that his friend didn't trust him enough to tell him that she was pregnant; he hated that everyone now knew— and that it was because of Craven.

 

Logan sighed, "I know you really admire this juvenile. And I admit: a lot of the things he says makes sense. But he's still careless." he rolled his eyes, "And I don't think someone with a name that refers to fellatio should be trusted too much."

 

Roman folded his arms over his chest.

 

"I. . .I don't think that he should have outed Val like that." he admitted quietly. "But you have to admit his heart's in the right place."

 

"Despite doing it in an obnoxious manner, yes."

 

“And— and everyone makes mistakes. I'm sure he didn't— I'm sure he had no bad intentions—”

 

“Roman.” his friend cut him off, “I don't agree with his methods. And I don't trust the influence he has on everyone. But I understand where he’s coming from.”

 

Roman paused and let himself mull that over before nodding. “Yeah." he relented, shoulders slumping, "Yeah, okay.”

 

"Ohh!” Patton exclaimed, grinning, “I  get  it! _Craven. C r a v i n g._ " he laughed and clapped his hands.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hello?_ ”

 

“Yeah! Uh, hey, Val. It’s Roman.”

 

“ _Oh_." she said, _"Hi_ , _Ro._ ”

 

Roman leaned against the wall, forcing himself not to start pacing. “I just wanted to apologize for—”

 

“ _Stop."_  she almost whispered, _"Just_. _. .just stop._ ”

 

Roman’s his mouth shut with a click.

 

He could hear her moving, getting comfortable, he assumed. But then his stomach clenched at the sniffle, and his heart ached at the sobs that followed. “Val—”

 

“ _I told. . .I told you! Sh-shut. ._.” she struggled to speak through her hiccups but continued to shush Roman and tell him to be quiet.

 

It took some time, maybe a few minutes, it could have been an hour before Valerie calmed down enough to where she could coherently speak again. “ _God, Roman. . .I’m— I’m so fucking angry!_ ”

 

“I—”

 

“ _Shut up!_ ” she demanded again. “ _Mr. Taylor! I should have known! I should have known I couldn't trust him! The scheming— conniving— fucker! The son of a_ bitch!”

 

Roman stood there with his mouth gaping, having trouble coming to terms that yes, this was indeed Valerie who was yelling profanities and cursing a teacher. He didn't blame her, Taylor was a backstabbing asshole.

 

“Wait." Roman held a hand up despite the other not being able to see, "You're not mad at Craven Moorehead?”

 

Valerie laughed, though it sounded bitter, even through the phone static. “ _Are you kidding? I mean— yeah. I am. But I wouldn't have known it was fucking_ Taylor _that got me expelled if it wasn't for him._ ” she took a breath, “ _And you know what?_ ” Roman knew better than to ask what, “ _I’m glad everyone knows. I’m glad that everyone can see what a piece of shit Travis Taylor is._

 

“ _And fuck. In a few months, I won't have to worry about explaining why I’m suddenly as big as a house_.”

 

The realness of the conversation came back to Roman like a splash of cold water. It was still so hard to accept the fact that Valerie, his dear friend, straight-A-always-punctual-never-in-trouble-friend, Valerie— was _pregnant._ His head fell back against the wall with a thunk.

 

 


	5. Crash Into Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Into your heart I'll beat again  
> Sweet like candy to my soul  
> Sweet you rock  
> And sweet you roll  
> Lost for you I'm so lost for you"

* * *

 

 

“Alright, on to the letters!” Craven cheered as he shuffled through the many envelopes on his desk.

 

At the bottom of the stack was one that stood out from the rest, clean and pristine, the paper a bright crimson. He picked it up and turned it over; the back read The Chastity Minx in dramatic cursive, with more swoops and loops than necessary. He slid his finger through the lapel and pulled out the letter.

 

"This letter is written by ‘The Chastity Minx’.” he declared in his mock dramatics. “ _You come in. Every night, you enter me like a criminal. You break into my brain— but you're no ordinary criminal. You put your feet up, you drink your can of Pepsi. You start to party. You turn up my stereo. Songs I've never heard, but I move anyway. You got me crazy, I say 'Do it.' I don't care what, just do it. Jam me, jack me, push me, pull me— talk hard._ "

 

He re-read the last line once or twice more, mouthing the sentence silently. “I like that. . . ‘Talk Hard’.” he grinned, “I like the idea that a voice can just go somewhere uninvited, and just kind of hang out like a dirty thought in a nice clean mind. To me, a thought is like a virus. You know, it can just kill all the healthy thoughts and just take over.”

 

Shaking his head, his smile went soft around the edges, “That would be serious.”

 

Roman sighed, "That would be totally serious.” Languidly, his fingertips traced the circled picture in his school yearbook.

 

“You know, I would love to call this 'Chastity Minx' up— but no. Because they didn't enclose their number.”

 

Roman hummed, a tug at the corner of his lips, "Tough luck, Sweetheart."

 

“Confident red paper, beautiful black writing. They’re probably a lot like me, a legend in their own mind. But you know what, I bet in real life they're probably not that wild. I bet they're kind of shy, like so many of us who briskly walk the halls, pretending to be late for some class, pretending to be distracted.” he sat up, his voice going a little accusatory, “Hey poetry dude, are you really this cool? Are you out there? Are you listening?”

 

Roman lay sprawled out on his bed, hooded eyes cast to the ceiling.

 

"I'm always out here." he whispered.

 

"I feel like I know you. . ." Craven said softly, staring at the letter in his hands tentatively. "—And yet we'll never meet," he said abruptly, choosing to ignore the letter altogether, tossing it to the side.

 

“Now here's a song from my close personal buddies: the Beastie Boys. A song that was so controversial, they couldn't put it on their second album.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Everyone get out your copies of _Of MIce And Men_ , if you remember, last night’s homework was to finish chapters four and five.”

 

A collective groan echoed through the classroom, along with the zippers of backpacks as kids pulled out their books. Roman was one of the few who didn't make a sound of distress as he retrieved his book, having actually done his homework the previous night. Unsurprisingly, it was Logan (with a little help from Patton) that made him do it, instead of doing what he wanted to— which was to re-listen to one of his Craven Moorehead tapes.

 

He twisted his body around and looked out the window.

 

Logan had said that listening to too much of the radio DJ would be. . .Roman struggled to remember the exact words, his concentration zeroing in on what was behind him; or rather, who was behind him.

 

Virgil wasn't paying attention to the class, which was typically normal, Roman had observed. instead he wrote things— if it had to do with class Roman did not know— in his composition book. His head cradled in the palm of his hand, his hair held back by his fingers in a tangled mess so he could see the paper in front of him.

 

Roman gnawed his bottom lip subconsciously, _being that cute should be illegal._

 

“We’re going to be filling out a character study sheet,” Mrs. Williams spoke up, “which will be collected at the end of class.”

 

The encore of groans that followed made the teacher shake her head. “Roman?” she asked softly, “Please pass out the worksheets.” she said as she handed the stack to him.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” he said, snapping his eyes back to the teacher and taking the heap out of her hands.

 

("Everyone get to work, I trust that you can do this by yourselves. I have a conference to attend, but Mr. Franklin is just across the hall.")

 

 _Thick, warm, wet; cascading in fat globs. Gorging and feasting, Devour from the inside out. Writhing and screaming, muscles tense; unable to decide: lash out, pull away, or succumb to the numbing, prickling sensation. Teeth gnash into—_ Virgil's hand seized in his writing, a worksheet shoved into his line of vision, obscuring his notebook.

 

He wanted to roll his eyes, there was plenty of space left on the desk for the paper to be set on— but of course, that's not even considered when annoying Virgil was an option. Nonetheless, he accepted the paper without a sarcastic remark, he mumbled a _thank you_ and set it to the side.

 

He was about to go back to his previous task when the bothersome person still stood within his space, unmoving. He sighed and looked up at around the same time said person chose to speak.

 

"What're  you  writing?" Roman _fucking_ Prince asked, in that dumb vivacious voice of his.

 

"Uh, uhm—" he set his arm over top of his notebook, shielding it when Roman tilted his head to try and read it— "It's— it's nothing. . . _worth reading._ "

 

"Oh, please." Roman smiled, "Anything written by you, Hot Topic, would make people like—" he made a flippant gesture with his hand— " _Howard Ashman_ envious."

 

Virgil's face heated, his throat had closed up at the nickname _Hot Topic_ (which had to have been in mockery, surely). But he couldn't help but snicker at the last part. "Ha. . .yeah, I don't think a playwright, talented  enough  to  work  on  movies  such  as  _The  Little  Mermaid_ would even consider. . ." he trailed off, his lips twisting into a frown and his ears turning red— utterly embarrassed by his beginnings of a tangent.

 

He hesitantly looked back up at Roman, mouth working over an apology, but his jaw clicked shut at the look he was getting.

 

"You  like  _Disney_?" Roman breathed out, leaning forward and clenching the stack of papers to his chest.

 

"Uhm!" Virgil shrunk back in his chair.

 

"Excuse me! We need papers too, dumbass!" one of their classmates chastised while waving her hand.

 

"Sorry!" Roman turned to walk away, and Virgil huffed a sigh of relief— before he turned back around, grinning at him with his charming smile.

 

Virgil looked away, back down to his notebook. He picked his pen back up, poised where he left off. . .only he forgot what the rest was planned out to be. He huffed in frustration, eyes flitting back to Roman.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You like that, _freak_?" his tormentor (one of many) shouted before shoving him against the metal locker.

 

He hissed as collapsed to the smooth tiled floor, the hinge had dug into his back upon impact, no doubt leaving a bruise to add to his collection.

 

"Aww, have you had enough, dick head?"

 

Damien didn't answer. He pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face while waiting for the inevitable. And the inevitable came: swift kicks to his legs, arms, sides, wherever he could be reached.

 

He sucked it up and tried to ignore it, he thought about other things: the rough texture of his jeans; the tickling cold feeling of the sweat that dripped from his forehead; his homework he had to do when he got home; his parents— his father scolding voice shouting _Men don't cry. I didn't raise no pansy fruit._

 

Eventually the blows came to a halt. And the sound of footsteps padding away made him huff out the breath he was holding.

 

In the deserted hallway only he could hear his sniveling.

 

 


	6. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know what it is that you've done to me  
> But it's caused me to act in such a crazy way  
> Whatever it is that you do when you do what you're doing"

* * *

 

 

“I don't know," Craven threw his arms up in a shrug, "drugs are out, sex is out, politics are out— everything  is  on  hold." he scoffed, "I mean, we definitely need something new. We just keep waiting for some new voice to come out of somewhere and say _Hey wait a minute, what is wrong with this picture?_ " he dramatically tossed the letter to the side, the paper flinging half way across the room, "Well, maybe this is the answer to everything— wouldn't  that  be  nice!”

 

Shaking his head, he changed rails, "Anyway, though." he popped in his Nine Inch Nails cassette, "I was listening to this little number the other day when my mom walked in—" he paused to laugh— "And I tell ya, she was not happy."

 

He pressed play. _Closer_ started up through people's speakers, a few stereos buzzed and popped with static from the base. Most teens bobbed their heads to the beat. Twenty-one seconds in, anyone who knew the lyrics well enough sighed out the words, nothing short than obscene overdramatics.

 

While his audience (unbeknownst to him) swayed and danced jokingly, he opened and closed the drawers of his desk, letting out a noise of triumph when he found what he was looking for. With practiced precision he rolled himself a tight joint, placing it between his lips and lighting up.

 

The last three minutes of this song always felt long and a little dragged out, in Craven's opinion at least. But it did eventually fade out, leaving him to fill in the silence.

 

He took a long drag, then blew a ring from his mouth. He straightened up, his back popping as he moved. "I feel like that song speaks to me, you know?" he huffed another breath of cannabis out with a laugh. "So, after that short little intermission, how about we try some more letters?"

 

Shuffling through the stack of envelopes that were on his desk, his eyes instantly lit up at the bright red that sat in the center of the stack.

 

The DJ whistled, "Well  don't  we  have  a  treat." he carefully unsealed the letter, pulling out the pristine paper. "Looks like The Chastity Minx is going to become a usual," he chuckled, "Not that I have a problem with that."

 

He cleared his throat, " _I don't quite know what it is that you've done to me. You've broken into my house, my life, via my stereo. You twist and rearrange my thoughts— now they're only of you._ " he wet his lips before taking a quick drag, " _My heart beats triple time when I hear your voice; be it your poetic and righteous beliefs, or your witty jokes and remarks. Either way you make my breath catch and toes curl. I don't quite know what it is that you've done to me— but whatever it is— don't you dare stop._ "

 

Craven hummed, leaning against his desk with his forehead resting in his palm, "You sure have a way with words, Minx. And I'm quite flattered that I'm the inspiration for this." he took a hit, "And trust me," he smiled, "I won't stop."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damien stared at the blank paper in front of him. His leg bounced and his hands ached from how tight his fists were.

 

He licked his scabbed lips, eyes flitting over to his quiet radio. Then back to his paper.

 

With a rough swallow, he picked up his pencil.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Virgil cracked the door open by a mere inch. He pressed close to the gap, eyeing the room before letting the door fall open more. At the conclusion that the coast was clear, he hurried over to the refrigerator, quickly he grabbed a can of Pepsi. With his task complete he turned on his heels to make a break for it— only to squeak and nearly drop his soda.

 

"Son." his father regarded him calmly, seeming to have appeared out of thin air: perched on the kitchen's barstool, newspaper in hand. "How's school?"

 

Virgil shrugged, popping the top of his Pepsi and taking a sip. "It's school. Not much to say."

 

"Of course there is." Howard said, voice even, "Grades. Clubs. Sports? Friends?" he peered over his newspaper, "Have you made any new friends yet?"

 

Virgil shrugged again. He was sick of these questions. _When's my loser son gonna grow a pair and become valley victorian, captain of the football team, the most popular— blah blah blah._ Virgil willed himself not to roll his eyes.

 

"No, Dad."

 

"And why not?" his father shifted in his seat, paper down and full attention on his son.

 

Virgil's skin prickled uncomfortably. He rather preferred it when his dad would ignore his existence. It had always been one of the two: pester and annoy about his personal life, _Friends? Girlfriend? A life, son?_ or forget he even had a son. The second one wasn't bad, and was honestly much more appealing in retrospect.

 

"I don't know, Dad."

 

"Well, you oughta know. You can't just go about life not talking to people."

 

Looking at the ground, he shrugged, "Whatever, Dad."

 

"Don't you 'whatever' me, young man."

 

Before Howard could finish what he had to say Virgil quickly cut in, "I better get back to my room, I have a lot of homework I have to finish."

 

His father eyed him, then nodded. "Yes. You do that. Don't need you falling behind in class." he picked his paper back up, it crinkling between his fingers as he straightened it. "We'll continue this talk later."

 

Virgil swallowed his sigh. He didn't know how many more times they could possibly have the same conversation. "Yeah, Dad." he headed over towards the basement door, "See you at dinner."

 

His father grunted as a reply.

 

He pursed his lips, nodding to himself before turning, taking another step into his retreat.

 

"I almost forgot."

 

Virgil threw his head back and internally groaned. "Huh?"

 

"You know that. . .Craven guy?"

 

Virgil tensed, every hair on his body standing on end. He took a deep, steady breath, schooling a look of indifference. "Yeah. Everyone in school talks about him." he replied, hoping his voice didn't come out too shaky, "I mean. . .he's, like, a radio DJ, right?"

 

Howard stared at him, calculating. Virgil stood still, taking a sip of his soda to appear nonchalant. "Why?" he smiled, "Do you listen to him?"

 

His father scoffed, squaring his shoulders and turning away, "Definitely _not._ I don't need to hear what he has to say— to know he only talks trouble." he gave his paper a shake to keep it upright, "The school is becoming less than dysfunctional because of his. . .recklessness." he looked over his shoulder to his son, "And I don't want you listening to him either."

 

Virgil nodded, "I won't."

 

"Good." Howard looked away again, "Now go do your homework."

 

 


	7. We'll Let You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How sad are we?  
> And how sad have we been?  
> We'll let you know  
> We'll let you know  
> Oh, but only if, you're really interested"

* * *

 

 

" _Dear Craven, I want to wear something to turn on my girlfriend. Is there a guy version of lingerie I could get? But something that's not hard to find, or is expensive, I don't want my parents finding out, you know?_ "

 

Craven sat the letter to the side, "Honestly? A spider-man costume." he shrugged, "You can get one at Party City. Your parents might think you're weird, but won't question it. And it'll definitely turn your girlfriend on." he grinned, "Take her out on a date— somewhere secluded. Wear the suit underneath your normal clothes." he pulled away from the mic to compose himself, trying not to laugh, "Then when everything's ready: do a strip tease, revealing the costume. Do a sexy little dance— she'll be putty in your hands."

 

He picked up the next one in the pile, opening it up and reading aloud, " _Craven Moorhead, I think my boyfriend is cheating on me. He avoids me on certain days, and then I can smell a perfume on him that I know isn't mine. What should I do?"_

 

Craven sighed, "I don't know how to tell you this, but. . ." he paused for dramatic effect, "Your boyfriend may be a werewolf, and has a habit of falling asleep in flower beds. Respect his boundaries, and lock the doors on full moons."

 

He shook his head and moved onto the next letter, " _Dear Craven Moorehead, I'm afraid that my girlfriend is getting bored with our sex life. I want to spice things up, but I don't know what to do. Any ideas?_ "

 

He gave a thoughtful hum, tapping his chin with his forefinger, "Well, try a mini trampoline at the bottom of the bed and do a run up. That should spice things up."

 

Craven laughed, "Okay, anyway." he took a breath to calm down, "What's with all the relationship questions? I thought I told you that I'm not fit for this."

 

He picked up the next in the pile, a generic white envelope, with lined loose leaf paper on the inside. He straightened it in his hold before he began to read.

 

" _Dear Craven Moorehead. . .do you think_. . .” He sat up in his chair abruptly, a pit forming in his gut. He cleared his throat, “ _I should kill myself?_ "

 

He let out a shaky sigh, "Signed, _I'm Serious._ "

 

he ran his hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut, "And of course there’s a number here."

 

Picking up the phone he tried to reason with himself. This was probably a prank. It had to be, he already got so many joke letters as is. Though they were never this. . .morbid. If it were a ruse, then the person was a sadistic asshole.

 

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the dial pad. Either way, it wasn't like he could just ignore the letter. What if _Serious_ was serious. He licked his lips nervously. If he didn't go through with it, then _he'd_ be the asshole, wouldn't he.

 

Craven eyed his mic. The thought of calling this kid up, and having everyone listen in wasn't ideal. But if Serious wasn't okay with it, then they wouldn't have written to a radio DJ, Craven reasoned.

 

He dialed the number as written.

 

"Now let's see if they'll pick up." he tried to joke, but he was hunching over himself, gnawing his lip as he waited for them to pick up.

 

The line clicked, but no sound came to follow it.

 

After a beat Craven spoke, "Hello, Serious?" he quired carefully.

 

Only a few seconds later, “ _Yeah_.” The person said back, voice even.

 

Craven's fingers began to tap the wood of his desk, “Hey. . .are you okay?”

 

“ _Yep_.” They answered in a quip.

 

Craven moved thing along, hands getting sweaty, "So I got your letter," he looked down at said paper, "You said that. . .you wanted to kill yourself."

 

" _No_." The guy retorted, and Craven was about to breathe a sigh of relief. He was about to collapse back on his chair and blair sleazy music in an attempt to shake off all that unwanted unease.

 

But that was before Serious went on, " _I asked if you think I should kill myself_."

 

Craven almost dropped the phone, his hand so slick with sweat. _No!_ He wanted to yell. _Why the_ fuck _do think my thoughts on this are relevant._ He wanted to shake Serious' shoulders and tell him to talk to someone who could actually help. To go see someone that would have the right answer— preferably someone who wasn't him. But Craven didn't— couldn't. Instead, he sat with his leg bouncing as he tried his best to breathe evenly.

 

"What about your friends— your family?" he tried, "I'm sure they'd be devastated to hear you talk about this."

 

Craven looked at his radio set, uneasy that so many people were listening.

 

“ _I'm all alone_.” he confided, his tone still disturbingly flat. " _I  have  no  one_."

 

“No, hey," Craven interjected, shifting the phone in hopes that his words would be clear, "Maybe it's okay to be alone sometimes, everybody's alone.”

 

“ _You're not_.”

 

His ears got hot, the pit in his stomach burning further. He squeezed his eyes shut again, not blinking them open until he could see white spots.

 

"That's not true." he said, holding up a finger though no one could see it, “I didn't talk to one person today," he pressed his palm against the desk, patting it with slowed force, "not. . .not counting teachers."

 

He sighed through his nose, "I sit alone every day, you know, sitting in the library eating my lunch, reading a book." sitting up a bit, he began to ask, "What about you?”

 

The line clicked, the soft whir being the only thing to answer Craven back.

 

"Great! He's got the phone off the hook." he ran a hand through his hair, his heart racing, "Rejected again. . .but that's okay I'm used to it, terminal loneliness. . ."

 

He put the phone back, it making a click as it fastened into place. Folding his arms over his desk he went on, "People always think they know who a person is but they're always wrong.

 

"Leave it to the most advanced species on the planet to be the most fucked up. To be the most judgemental and crude. If we're so advanced, then why can't we all just get along— why don't we all just accept each others' differences. We don't have to like each other, but we should at least be understanding."

 

The clearing was littered with cars borrowed from their parents, all tuned into the same station. Remy sat with his hands clasped on his chest, the car's seat reclined as he laid back; he kept his eyes trained on his tattered headliner.

 

"Do you know what I've noticed?" he asked rhetorically, "If someone says something that another person doesn't agree with— that person will automatically go: 'What the hell is wrong with you?' instead of asking why you feel that way, or why you believe what you do. Because everyone has one way of thinking: their way. And if it's not their way, then it _must_ be wrong."

 

Stuttering a sigh, Roman cradled his head in his hand while he stared at nothing. His math textbook tossed to the side, ignored.

 

"No one has the same way of thinking, and no one has the same way of feeling either. So who the fuck has the right to tell you how you should think or feel. It's _your_ life. Not anyone else's. And no one should be aloud to try and take that right."

 

Her hand idly rubbed her still-flat stomach; piles of job applications and resumes surrounding her lying form. All rejections, no one wanting a pregnant 'drop out' to work for them.

 

"Something else I've noticed: we're all a little fucked in the head. All of us. No one is perfect. Everyone has shit days. And parents say that all the time: that everyone experiences bad things, 'so just chin up and get over it'. But. . .why? Why do you have to get over it? Why can't you let it out— and just express how bad you feel?"

 

Logan sat his book on his night stand, his glasses following. A forlorn look on his face as he turned off his bedside light and layed down; not turning off his radio.

 

“Most parents have no idea. . ." he sniffled, quickly wiping his nose before forcing a chuckle, "It's just that mine had me tested because I sit alone in my room alone, naked, wearing only a cock ring." he laughed again but it came out strained.

 

"I mean. . .it really bugs me, everyone knows what a person should be. Who cares who I should be! You know, in real life I could be that anonymous nerd sitting across from you in chemistry. Staring at you so hard, you turn around, he tries to smile, but the smile just comes out all wrong." he snickered, "You just think: _How pathetic_. Then he just looks away and never looks back at you again. . ."

 

He roughly scrubbed at his eyes, his knuckles coming away wet.

 

"Well hey, who cares, that's my motto." he said, "Well, sleep tight, Valerie; sleep tight, Dragão; sleep tight, Poetry Minx; sleep tight, Mr. Serious. . .maybe you'll feel better tomorrow.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the letters that craven reads in the begining are all from an Agony Aunt newspaper column called The Poke


	8. Climbing Up The Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And either way you turn  
> I'll be there  
> Open up your skull  
> I'll be there  
> Climbing up the walls"

* * *

 

 

The once calming and welcoming quiet of the library was now defeaning torture. Virgil slumped over a book, trying to reread the same page for the umpteenth time, his mind wandering despite trying to focus.

 

He didn't want to think about last night, to mull over the conversation that was broadcasted for so many people to hear. _God, how many people were listening last night?_ He shook his head, gluing his eyes back to the text printed in front of him. No benefit would come of rethinking things, he told himself. Yet he couldn't help it.

 

What was Serious doing in that moment? Was he in school? If so, did he have the same lunch period as Virgil?

 

Virgil rubbed the page between his thumb and forefinger. Was Serious actually genuine with what he had said? Or was that really some fucked up prank, trying to mess with him and screw up his brain. If that was the intention, to fuck with him and make him feel sick, then it worked.

 

His leg bounced under the table, the _tap tap tap_ of his shoe against the floor being the only sound besides Virgil's sighs.

 

He had to get over it. Push it aside and move on. Even if Mr. Serious was sincere, what did that have to do with him?

 

Virgil's leg stuttered. He ran his hand over his face. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

 

Shaking his head, he focused his eyes back to the text in front of him, trying, _trying_ to shove any unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind.

 

“Hey, Virgil!”

 

Virgil's knee collided with the bottom of the table.

 

He whipped his head around, breath caught in his throat as he prayed his ears were deceiving him. They weren't.

 

"Shit." he muttered under his breath, though the other more than likely heard him.

 

He didn't look deterred, however, taking a step closer, “I got a stick of gum." Roman said, "Black Jack!” he held up the foil wrapped gum, sitting it on the table top in front of Virgil.

 

He looked at the gum for a few seconds, brows pinched and eyes slightly narrowed. He parted his lips as he tried to make sense of the stick of gum.

 

"Thank you. . .?" he questioned, put off more than he already was. (Not to mention it was a little odd for Roman to know his favourite flavour of gum.)

 

Roman smiled his one-hundred watt smile, his teeth sparkling and eyes crinkling in the corners.

 

Virgil eyed him uneasily, hands clasped over his book. His stomach knotted in itself, and no doubt his face was turning red.

 

The brunet leaned over into Virgil's personal space, regarding his book with an interested gaze. "What're you reading?"

 

"Uhm." Virgil hurriedly checked the cover of the book. _Guilty Pleasures._ Of fucking course.

 

He hunched his shoulders as Roman gave a low whistle. "Sounds hot." Virgil wanted to hide, "Is it good? Like, would you recommend it?" he asked, leaning his hip against the table.

 

Virgil shrugged, toying with the edge of a random page, "It's. . .very. . ." he shook his head, "I don't know. . ."

 

"Haven't gotten far enough to tell?"

 

He gave a curt nod, hoping he would go away, "Sure."

 

"Yeah," Roman said, "I know what you mean. The first few chapters can always be a drag."

 

"Depends on what you're reading." Virgil muttered without meaning to.

 

Roman looked at him, seeming a little caught off guard. "Well. . .yeah." he waved his hand, "I mean, duh. It really comes down to the author, and their specific style."

 

Virgil nodded stiffly, "Right."

 

"Yeah. Well, anyway. . ." Roman began. He stared at Virgil with a grin that made his heart flip and palms sweat. ". . .You  really  as  horny  as  a  ten-peckered  owl?”

 

" _What_?" Virgil croaked, his face flushing to his roots.

 

Wide eyed, he couldn't do much but gawk at the other. His thoughts were racing everywhere, wondering just what the _fuck_ Roman was doing to him, and why. 

 

He wiped the sweat off his palms and onto his pants, looking anywhere but at Roman.

 

Roman bit his lip, looking away. “Listen," he said, ignoring his own question, and subsequently Virgil's reaction, "I was gonna go down to The Mind Palace after school and grab a burger. . .”

 

When he looked back at him, Virgil was floored by the softness on Roman's face. He wasn't giving his usual smile, this one was more open, raw. His eyes gazing at him so. . .delicately, it was like he was nervous. Virgil blinked.

 

“Wanna come?”

 

And that was it. He felt like he was going to combust— his face was so hot he could of sworn it was close to bursting. He could imagine it, his flesh and face-bits flying all over the nearby bookshelves, chunks of bloodied meat— cooked from the heat of his blush— painting the spines and covers in red.

 

Had Roman Prince— genuinely just ask _him_ of all people, to accompany him to The Mind Palace for a burger. He was daydreaming right? He was still spacing out while staring at his open book— right? Virgil's parents were right, he really was losing it. Because why would Roman— why would he ask Virgil to lunch?

 

Carefully, quietly, inconspicuously, he flipped the page in his book. And Roman was still there.

 

He felt like pumping his fists in the air— but concomitantly he had the urge to vomit, for multiple reasons. The first being simply his nerves ( _There's no way I can go with him— my freak ass will say something stupid, and make a complete fool of myself_ ). What if it was a trick, even if Roman didn't seem like a guy to be so cruel, Virgil didn't know him very well. He could be fucking with him. Trying to out him, humiliate him.

 

He wasn't at all worried about cutting class, that was doable (he still had a few passes that he stole from his father).

 

The second thing that stopped him was Mr. Serious.

 

When was the last time Serious went out for a burger? Or a crush of his talked to him kindly? He shifted in his seat. It didn't seem fair, at all. What did he do to deserve eating lunch with Roman? Had Roman listened in last night. . .? If he did, how the fuck was he acting so nonchalant, as if someone hadn't publicly threatened to take their own life? The notion made Virgil feel gross all over again, the stuff he shoved away minutes prior crawling their way back. Digging their nasty, knotty claws into his brain's nerves and dragging itself to his frontal lobe.

 

"Virgil?" Roman asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

 

“Er, no." he said, clambering out of his chair, "I can't." he grabbed his book and shoved it in his backpack, "Gotta go, sorry.” he zipped it up and hurried away.

 

Roman watched him go, his lips pulled into a frown, brows pinched. He scoffed, "Sorry?"

 

He crossed his arms, eyes falling on the piece of Black Jack that still sat on the table.

 

What was he doing wrong? He wondered. Was he not being straightforward enough? He sighed, picking the gum up and unwrapping it, popping it in his mouth. Roman grumbled to himself. Flirting was usually so easy, yet Virgil had to make things so _difficult_. Not that he wasn't fine with the chase, it was more than worth it. It was just frustrating.

 

He blew a bubble, the gum expanding, and expanding, before it abruptly popped, covering his mouth and chin with sugary, sticky latex. His eyes widened, a lightbulb going off in his head.

 

 


	9. No Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A heart that's full up like a landfill  
> A job that slowly kills you  
> Bruises that won't heal  
> You look so tired, unhappy  
> Bring down the government  
> They don't, they don't speak for us  
> I'll take a quiet life"

* * *

 

 

"These damn tapes!" O'Brien all but huffed, throwing the aforementioned tape in a basket that was already brimming with ones just like it. "They keep popping up all over the place— they were playing this in the alcove."

 

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Mr. Miller asked from one of the lounge's rickety chairs, "Everyday there's more graffiti."

 

Travis Taylor sighed, throwing his hands up, "I don't know, but he's turning the school upside down." he crossed his arms, "Something has to be done about him."

 

Ignoring Taylor, Mrs. Williams spoke up, "Has anybody seen Remy Dormir at all this week? I haven't seen him in class since last Wednesday."

 

Miller shook his head, "Mine either."

 

"Odd. We should have gotten a call from his parents if he was sick."

 

"So what?" O'Brien questioned. "I don't see how that has any relevance here."

 

"Oh, I'm sorry." Mrs. Williams smiled, "I thought we were discussing the well being of our students." she gave a wave of her hand, "My bad."

 

O'Brien narrowed his eyes, lips in a thin line. Williams wasn't deterred.

 

"I just find it strange for a student to disappear without warning."

 

"He's eighteen." O'Brien said, "He probably just dropped out." he shrugged, "I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case."

 

Mrs. Williams scoffed, "Excuse me?"

 

"Don't act so surprised." he went on, "The kid has a record with more pages than a phonebook. And his grades are piss poor."

 

The English teacher was fuming where she stood, arms crossed and back rigid. "I'll have you know—" she jabbed a finger in his direction.

 

However, all other words caught in her throat as the lounge door opened with a soft sound. The woman who stepped in making everyone tense up (some more than others).

 

"I hope I'm not interrupting something." Drãgao said curtly, stepping towards the coffee maker with purpose, the heels of her shoes deaf against the cheap carpet.

 

"Of course not," O'Brien said, "we were just--"

 

"We were worried about Remy Dormir." Williams interrupted, earning another unmasked glare. "I haven't seen him at all this week. And I'm sure you agree that it's very peculiar—"

 

"Yes, I do know." Drãgao clucked, "You might as well get used to his absence." the coffee machine hummed as it started up, sputtering out pre-heated water, "Because he was expelled."

 

Mr. Miller's forehead creased. He shared a look with Williams, both of them perplexed.

 

"Expelled?" Williams parroted, not quite believing what she was hearing.

 

Remy Dormir was a troublemaker, that much was true. But it was never to the point of such extreme punishment. His mischief usually dipped into cutting class or smoking in the boys room, nothing worth being kicked out for.

 

Grabbing a bottle of creamer, Drãgao poured an excessive amount into her drink, "That's right." she said, then murmured, "Serves him right."

 

She took a step towards her superior, taut but plucky, "On what accounts?"

 

Her back towards the others, the school's principal mixed her cream filled coffee phlegmatically, the metal spoon clinking against the ceramic mug.

 

"I caught the miscreant selling cassettes in the parking lot." she made a vague gesture to the basket on the small table, "Ones like those." she turned towards the taller woman, eyes crinkling with her smile, "With him gone there will be a decline in expropriated cassettes. What, with their dealer gone and all."

 

"Miss Drãgao," Mr. Taylor asked, unsure, "Isn't that. . .isn't expulsion a bit extreme? For something so. . ." he made a gesture with his hand, "small?"

 

Drãgao all but leered at the counselor, a sculpted brow arched, "Small?" she shook her head, "Need I remind you: it was _you_ who had expelled Miss Valerie Torres."

 

"Well, yes—yes—" he sputtered— "but for good reason."

 

She eyed him over her mug, taking a sip, "Are you saying that I didn't have 'good reason', Mr. Taylor, hmm?"

 

"Uhm. I didn't mean to offend," he tried, "it's just. . .very extreme. And I removed Torres for the well being of her and the other students. She was a poor influence."

 

"And so is Dormir," she countered, "He is also a poor influence on the others. And I too, did it for his well being."

 

Taylor's mouth slowly came shut. Sitting back he mulled over her words.

 

"You can't be serious." Miller forced a chuckle, "You're joking, right? Getting pregnant at seventeen and selling bootleg tapes are far from the same." he regarded everyone in the room, searching for agreement, "I mean, come on. You're taking away his education— his future! All he did was sell some stupid tapes!" he looked around again, eyes pleading for someone to back him up.

 

Everyone shrunk back, refusing to meet his eyes. Mrs. Williams held his gaze, pursing her lips before speaking up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pencil rapping against his open notebook, he glared at the blank page as he tried to muster some form of inspiration, but to no avail. Virgil looked up from his frustratingly-blank paper and took in the talkative class.

 

Everyone was broken up into their groups of friends, talking animatedly with one another, some even sitting on the desks.

 

Virgil rolled his eyes and glanced up at the clock. It was five minutes after the bell and Mrs. Williams was still nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had a conference or something and was being held up? It wasn't like the teacher to be late, she was always in class before the first student arrived— and he would know, because he was the first to class every day.

 

"If she doesn't show up in a few more minutes we can leave, it's the law." someone said offhandedly.

 

"Oh shit, yeah." another said, "Five minutes, right?"

 

"No, I think it's fifteen."

 

"Let's lock the door so she can't come in." a guy with a bowl cut joked.

 

Virgil clicked his tongue, about to go back to glaring at his blank page when someone else spoke up, "Hey, did you hear about that ambulance on thirty-first street last night?"

 

He looked back up, blank page forgotten.

 

"Yeah!" a girl exclaimed, "My friend's dad is a doctor, and she told me that a kid overdosed." her pink lips turned in a frown, "Tried to kill himself, I think."

 

Virgil's breath suddenly caught in his throat, his mind racing and stumbling over his thoughts. But each one was regarding the same thing— the same person: Mr. Serious.

 

"Did he. . ." a girl asked, not finishing her sentence but not needing to.

 

Virgil toyed with the cuff of his purple flannel, listening in with careful consideration.

 

"I don't know." the other said lowly, tone sad. "Would they say something on the news? Or like, in the paper maybe?"

 

"The only reason it would be in the paper would be if they put him in the obituary." a guy said, voice flat.

 

"Dude." his friend frowned, elbowing him.

 

"What?" he said defensively, "I'm being honest!"

 

"Do you know the guy's name?" someone asked, empathetic eyes gleaming.

 

The girl (with a friend whose dad was a doctor) spoke up again, “I think his name was. . .Devon?” she pursed her lips, "Devon Steakhouse?"

 

“Who?”

 

“Oh. . .Do you mean Damien? Damien Stricthouser?"

 

"Yeah! Him." she sighed and leaned her elbow against a desk, "It's so sad."

 

Virgil felt like he was going to throw up. And he made a mental note to do it on the group of gossiping peers. What right did they have to talk about Mr. Serious? To question why they hadn't found out through the media, while they couldn't even recall his real name? It made Virgil's fists clench with his nervous stomach.

 

“Wait," the guy with a bowl cut added, "remember the guy that Craven Moorehead called? The one that said he was going to kill himself?”

 

"Mr. Serious."

 

Bile rose in Virgil's throat. He shrunk back in his seat. He rooted through everyone's expressions, When his gaze fell on Roman he was already looking back at him. The heavy gawp made him shudder and turn away. (He shoved any mushy feelings that threatened to surface down— far down.) Not dwelling on cute boys with fluffy chestnut hair, he reflected on his other peers.

 

Glaring at them from his seat, hating the utterly _fake_ commiseration that dripped from their faux simpatico voices and soft, caring looks. It was nothing more than pity; they didn't care; they didn't know him. They never gave him the time of day, or looked twice at him. If they had, then maybe Mr. Serious wouldn't had felt that the only person he could confide into was a fucking radio DJ that only knew how to make dick jokes and goo-goo eyes at Roman Prince (he shook his head, shooing the name away).

 

But then again, it wasn't like Virgil had ever talked to the guy, either. It wasn't like he knew him by name or anything. Yet he also didn't pretend to care to make himself look good for others.

 

"Holy fuck." bowl cut guy muttered, "I guess he really was serious."

 

And Virgil didn't make little quips. He stood up abruptly, his chair making loud contact with the floor. All eyes were on him as he stormed out; he paid them no mind, throwing the door open and leaving without a word.

 

"What's his problem?"

 

"Was it fifteen minutes already?"

 

Roman shifted in his seat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And then he left! Very dramatically— he slammed the door and everything."

 

"Who did you say this was?" Logan asked, squirting ketchup on his hamburger.

 

"Virgil Macintosh." Roman supplied, "About my height; dark curly hair; the _dreamiest_ gray eyes. . ." he looked off wistfully, inattentive smile on his face.

 

Logan cleared his throat, effectively snapping Roman out of his little trance.

 

Patton giggled, "Aww, does Ro have a crush?"

 

"Seems so." Logan said, "But I thought it was Craven Moorehead that got him flustered."

 

Roman hushed them, the two of them may have been okay with his attraction to the same sex but that didn't mean everyone else would be so accepting. He quickly looked around the small diner, finding that no one was paying them any mind he turned back to his friends.

 

"What made you think that?" he questioned.

 

Patton and Logan shared a look.

 

" _Did you listen to Craven Moorehead last night?_ " one of them mocked, putting on an extravagant voice.

 

" _Oh my God, he's so smart and philosophical._ " the other said, using an equally awful impersonation.

 

" _I could listen to him talk for hours._ "

 

" _I know he said he wasn't seeing anybody— but do you think he was lying?_ "

 

" _He's just so—_ "

 

"Okay, okay, enough!" Roman hissed, waving his hands at them frantically. "So I think he's cool. Whatever."

 

"It's just interesting." Logan shrugged, "With the way Craven Moorehead is it makes me wonder what you see in Virgil."

 

"We're not talking about that stuff right now," Roman countered, not wanting to dwell on what Logan said.

 

"Right, you're right." Patton agreed, "You said he rushed out."

 

"Dramatically." Logan added before taking a bite out of his burger.

 

"Do you know why?"

 

Roman crossed his arms over the table as he recalled what happened. "I think it was because everyone was talking about Damien Stricthouser."

 

"What about him?" Patton queried.

 

"You haven't heard?" Roman asked, surprised. Everyone in school having talked about the incident in more ways than one. "Apparently he tried to kill himself."

 

"What?" Patton worried, "Is he okay? He wasn't. . .wasn't successful, was he?"

 

"I don't know." Roman frowned, "No one knows."

 

"I heard someone mention it in the hallway." Logan pushed his glasses up, "I thought it was just gossip. I thought someone was just spreading rumors because of what happened with Craven Moorehead."

 

Roman looked down at his hands, the genuine concern on his friends' faces making him feel in the wrong. Why didn't he feel as remorseful as them? It was sad— devastating to know that someone he went to school with had tried to take his own life. Yet he felt so unaffected compared to everyone else. And he knew Damien, not well— they were never close; but they had classes together before.

 

He felt shameful, while Damien was (hopefully) lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines that were trying to keep him alive, Roman was caught up in the guilt of not feeling as bad as he should have. While Damien was wishing he was dead, Roman was anticipating his next move to win Virgil's affections. It wasn't right.

 

"Roman?" Patton asked softly, placing a hand on Roman's arm, "You okay, kiddo?"

 

"Yeah." he said, though not convincingly. "I'm fine. It's just. . .I hope Damien's doing alright."

 

Patton's smile didn't reach his eyes, his brows pinched, "Me too."

 

 


	10. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I look through the broken glass I watch the storm go through my mind  
> There's so much I had to say I know the words I left behind  
> And now I'm caught in a daydream with nowhere to run and hide  
> The world rushes by me, it's leaving me here all alone  
> (I would change everything, but I can't do anything  
> I would give all that I have to know where you are)"

* * *

 

 

On his way home Virgil wanted nothing more than to sprawl out on his desk chair, pop open a can of Pepsi and light a joint: his best method to alleviate his mood. But what he really didn't want upon entering his house, was to be bombarded by his parents.

 

He had barely gotten one foot through the door before they caught him, sitting at the kitchen's counter where they had waited for him.

 

When they turned to him Virgil had huffed, hoping that whatever lecture this was, that it would be quick.

 

"Virgil." his mother said kindly, patting the free bar stool in invitation; when Virgil didn't move she sighed and went on, "We heard about Damien Stricthouser, we know."

 

Virgil swallowed roughly. What he wanted to know was what the two of them had been doing to hear, neither of them ever being susceptible to gossip before.

 

"So?" he questioned, leaning his weight uncomfortably.

 

"We were just wondering," Howard asked, "if you knew him?"

 

The past tense made Virgil shiver, his palms going clammy. "No, not really."

 

His parents locked eyes before looking back to their son.

 

"Virgil, I'm going to ask you something." he squeezed his wife's hand, "Your mother and I have been talking, and I guess we realise. . ."

 

"Virgil," Isabella cut in, "basically, we thought you might benefit from seeing a psychiatrist."

 

The notion didn't surprise Virgil too much. Naturally his parents would interpret his standoffish, anxious behaviour as something that needed to be fixed.

 

He wrapped his arms around his chest. "Is it that obvious." he said blandly.

 

"No, honey, of course not!" his mother implored, "We think you're perfect, it's just that you seem so sad and lonely all the time."

 

"And we just want you to feel good about yourself." his father added.

 

"You had friends in New York, Hun."

 

Virgil shifted again, feeling himself begin to shake.

 

"Have you ever tried to meet people here at all?" Howard asked.

 

"Have you ever just walked up to a girl here and said 'Hi'?" Isabella pushed.

 

"Look." Virgil tried, his voice quivering, "The people here, they’re different— I can't talk to them!"

 

They make it sound so easy— everyone did. _Just talk to them!_ they say. He tried. He tried so hard to be normal, to be a face in the crowd that wouldn't be deemed strange. He wanted to have casual conversations with his peers during class, he didn't care for any friendships with them, he just wanted it to feel natural to _talk_. Why was it so hard? What was wrong with him?

 

"How are they different?" Isabella asked, "What makes them so different than the people in New York?"

 

Virgil walked towards the basement door, ready to make an exit, to hide away in his den— fuck the Pepsi he just needed some weed.

 

Howard stood up from his seat, in quick strides he stepped in front of his son's path, "We're not finished." he said, "I was talking to your English teacher today."

 

Virgil looked at his father, eyes narrowed, his frustration clear as day, "C'mon, Dad, please! It's creepy enough around there without you snooping around."

 

"Virgil, please just listen." his mother adjured.

 

"And she says you've got great promise as a writer," his father went on, "but that you're having trouble concentrating."

 

"Oh, okay." Virgil nodded, pretending that he understood, "So when is Johnny gonna concentrate; get happy; get a girlfriend and then write a bestseller?"

 

"Fine!" Howard threw his hands up, "You don't listen, you don't talk to me, you don't talk to anyone— you hate everything."

 

"I _can't_ talk to you people!" Virgil shouted, face hot, "And I certainly ain't gonna see a shrink."

 

"Listen, Virgil! Everyone's got problems, _not just you_ , but you ain't gonna solve them if you don't communicate them."

 

Virgil clenched his backpack's straps in an attempt to ground himself. The implications of what his father had said cut deep, too close to home. He was selfish, wasn't he? He was being offered help, and though he didn't want it the choice was still there. Unlike for Mr. Serious. Did he see a shrink at all? Or was Craven Moorehead really his only option— his last resort?

 

Virgil could feel the back of his eyes begin to burn; not wanting to bawl in front of his father, he turned on his heels, internally saying _fuck you_ to the basement and making a beeline to the front door. His shoes scuffed against the cement of the house's stoop in his rush. He didn't bother looking back in his haste to leave, despite the protesting calls of his mother.

 

Once Virgil was out of sight Isabella swiveled her bar stool to face her husband, "Okay!" she exclaimed, "He's gone; happy?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

He hated it when his parents got like that. He knew they were trying, but it was so damn frustrating. They would never get it, would never understand what was going on. Not when they pushed their own beliefs of what was wrong with him.

 

Virgil sighed and ran his hand over his face. He stood there for a moment, collecting himself before opening the door to the post office.

 

The woman at the counter didn't acknowledge him as he stepped inside, too invested in the magazine she was flipping through.

 

It didn't take him long to find his PO box, right between 20709 and 20711. Virgil pulled his key ring out of his pocket, flipping through the many keys until he found the right one, unlocking his PO box. A stack sat inside, more than last time and honestly a little overwhelming. He went to put them in his backpack, only pausing when bright crimson caught his eye.

 

A little buzz of excitement sparked through him. He pulled the envelope out of the stack, holding onto it as he shoved the rest into his bag. He quickly zipped it up and threw it over his shoulder, hurrying out of the post office to find a place to read.

 

The building's wall would have to do, leaning against the bricks he unfastened the lip, not bothering to wait until he was on air to read it. He needed a distraction from the shit that was plaguing him, and the poem he held in his hands was the perfect little treat.

 

_You're the voice crying out in the wilderness,_ he read silently, _you're the voice that makes my brain burn and makes my guts go gooey_.

 

_Yeah, you gut me, my insides spill on your alter and tell the future, my steaming, gleaming guts spill out your nature._ Virgil ran his thumb over the inked cursive, wordlessly mouthing as he read.

 

_I know you, maybe not your name, but your game. I know the true you, come to me or I'll come to you_.

 

Re-reading the last line Virgil shivered at the implications, his heart beat picking up.

 

"So you are him!" a familiar voice hollered.

 

Virgil whipped his head to the side, nearly yelping as Roman popped out from behind one of the building's pillars.

 

"Don't worry," he said in an awful effort to soothe, "I'm not going to bust you or anything." Roman grinned.

 

Virgil looked at him as if he had two heads, trying his best to comprehend what was going on. What was he doing there? Had he followed him, and if he did, why?

 

Roman's face fell at the less-than-enthused reaction, ". . .Aren't you going to ask who I am?"

 

Virgil snapped back into awareness, finding his voice, "I don't think so!" he shook his head, "Nope!"

 

He pushed himself off the wall, attempting to walk around Roman and head back to where his house was; only to be stopped as Roman held out his arm, blocking him.

 

"I'm The Chastity Minx!" he proclaimed with a proud smile.

 

Virgil's face twisted into confusion, then to masked horror as he let those words, and the baffling ones from earlier, sink in.

 

"So you don't believe me." Roman frowned before leaning in close, face inches away from Virgil's, " _I know you,_ " he breathed, making Virgil shiver, his face going red, " _not your name, but your game. I know the true you,_ " he smirked, " _come  to  me  or  I'll  come  to  you._ "

 

Virgil pulled away from Roman, almost stumbling over his own feet. The other let him go, seeming more pleased with himself as Virgil tried to compose himself.

 

Roman was The Chastity Minx— the writer of the erotic poems he had saved, stashed away in a shoe box under his bed. And fuck. Fuck, fuck _, fuck._ Roman knew. He fucking knew and now Virgil could only stand there, gaping at Roman with his throat dry.

 

"Hey relax," Roman said in another terrible aim at easing the other, "I'm not really like that," he smiled, then shrugged, "except when I am."

 

Virgil stumbled where he stood, hand shooting out to hold onto the brick wall. He zoned in on the cold jagged stone against his palm, making an effort to fully process. Owing to the fact that Craven's secret admirer knew who he was— and that secret admirer was none other than Roman.

 

"And look," he started, "I wanted to tell you, it's not your fault." Roman said softly, resting a hand on Virgil's shoulder.

 

A brow went up on its own volition.

 

"I was listening." he went on, "I didn't think he'd go through with it."

 

It only took a moment for Virgil to register what Roman meant. Frankly, he really didn't want to talk about it. He liked Roman, but that didn't mean he had a place to talk about what had happened (just like the kids in their English class, Roman didn't get a pass).

 

"I. . ." he brushed Roman's hand off, "I don't have anything to say to you." Virgil said truthfully, hoping to leave it at that.

 

"Look, Virgil." he tried again, "I know how you're feeling right now. You—"

 

"Shut up." Virgil snapped, ignoring Roman's wide eyed look.

 

Virgil wasn't in the mood to talk about his feelings (especially regarding this), not with his parents; not with a shrink; not with Roman Prince. No matter how hurt and panged he looked. Virgil wasn't about to sit down and get a therapy session with someone who didn't know what they were talking about.

 

"Virgil, I get it." Roman carried on, not listening— or just not caring, Virgil couldn't tell, "You must feel really guilty for what happened." Virgil frowned. "And I know a lot of people probably blame you for it—"

 

"What?" Virgil took a step back.

 

"I'm just saying: I get it, and I don't blame you."

 

People blamed him? Blamed Craven? But he didn't tell Serious to. . .to kill himself. Then again, he didn't exactly tell him not to, either. Virgil replayed the conversation in his head, trying to remember if he had actually tried to talk Serious down. He couldn't recall. It was his responsibility, Serious had came to Craven seeking help, looking for someone to talk him down. It was his fault.

 

"I'm sure this will all blow over once he's better, and—"

 

"Stop talking!" Virgil shouted, much louder than before, "Stop— stop talking to me like you know me!" he balled his hands into fists, crinkling the letter in his hand, "You don't know me; you don't know how I feel!"

 

At that point Roman's eyes were as wide as saucers, looking at Virgil in shock and hurt.

 

"Hell," he went on, unable to stop the onslaught of words, "I can count the amount of times we've talked to each other on one hand!"

 

The ache in Roman's expression dropped, replaced with one of frustration, "Yeah?" he challenged, "Well, whose fucking fault is that!"

 

Virgil flinched, taking another step back.

 

Roman's mouth snapped shut, eyes softening with regret.

 

Virgil looked at the ground, face on fire. He blinked back tears, his eyelashes feeling heavy with moisture, "And I don't know anything about you. . ." he sniffed and looked away, "I don't. . ."

 

He couldn't do this, he was too overwhelmed and just wanted to go back to his house. He was starting to wish he had stayed and dealt with his parents.

 

Roman grabbed his arm, urging him to look back and meet his stare, "But. . .but you want to though. . ." he pleaded, and when Virgil finally complied and met his gaze, Roman was looking no better than he probably was: eyes red from holding back tears that they were brimming with, "Right?"

 

Virgil looked at him; at Roman, his long-time crush, and often time, muse. The guy he had been taken with since his first week in that god forsaken school. He had seen him as a beacon of excitement. Loud, charismatic, reckless, brave (and sometimes annoying) Roman.

 

Virgil looked at The Chastity Minx, his apparent admirer, who was trenchant with words, and somehow always knew just what to say to get Virgil hot under the collar.

 

His tousled chestnut hair and green eyes that sparkled with unshed tears, his bronze skin and soft jawline, the little beauty mark below his left eye.

 

Someone who Virgil had ogled and held in such high esteem. Because how could someone so charming and confident and quick-witted, someone so handsome— and okay, Virgil would even go as far as to call him _dashing_ , exist? He was everything Virgil could never be, or ever keep up with.

 

And at the end of the day Virgil knew what he had said was right: he _didn't_ know Roman. He had kept him on such a pedestal, convinced that he would never have a chance, and convinced that Roman Prince was an untouchable being that would have pitied him for Virgil's feelings, if he wasn't so benevolent.

 

Virgil was afraid, as he was with almost everything. But right now he was afraid of getting hurt, of finding out that he really can't compete with Roman's other suitors, that he would soon grow bored of Virgil. It wasn't like he was spontaneous or boisterous like him. And was afraid of getting to know Roman: of seeing the real him, not the perfect picture that Virgil had painted and shamefully fantasized about.

 

The consequences of knowing the real Roman was terrifying. It made Virgil's breath go uneven and legs shake where he stood. He sniffled, roughly wiping away falling tears with his sleeve.

 

"I. . ." Virgil shook his head, turning away, "I don't really know anymore."

 

"Virgil. . ."

 

He brushed off Roman's hand again, which fell limp at Roman's side. He folded up The Chastity Minx's letter— _Roman's_ letter, the paper creased from when he balled it up, and slid it into his back pocket.

 

"I gotta go." he mumbled, leering down at his combat boots.

 

"Virgil, please."

 

"No." he said evenly, his mess of hair falling over his eyes, "I really gotta go." Virgil steered around Roman, hands clasped around his backpack's straps as he hurried away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to make it clear that the way Virgil talks about psychiatrists is not in anyway my opinion lol


	11. Bound For The Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And you just don't get it  
> You keep it copacetic  
> And you learn to accept it  
> You know it's so pathetic"

* * *

 

 

Stuffy and secure, the basement was only lit by old Christmas lights. The smoke that danced softly in the dim lit room was given a colorful hue, billowing gently and turning Virgil's room into the usual hotbox that it was.

 

_"And so family and friends of Damien Stricthouser sadly come and go into the night."_

 

Virgil sat at his desk, the radio on but turned down low.

 

 _"Even as phantom DJ Craven Moorehead prepares to broadcast anonymously from somewhere in this formerly peaceful community."_ he said with that voice that all news men had, trying hard to be engaging while still being emotionless, _"This is Chep River reporting live from Paradise Hills, Arizona. Back to you, Jim."_

 

Head propped up on his folded arms, he mumbled, "Yeah back to you."

 

Virgil sighed, turning his radio off.

 

He stared at his shortwave set for a moment, contemplative, before he sat up and began switching it on.

 

It was midnight, his peers all waited anxiously for Craven to come and speak to them like every night. Teachers and staff waited impatiently, tapping their feet and twiddling their thumbs, readying themselves for the nonsensical nonsense to start.

 

He took a deep breath before he began to speak, "You see I never planned it like this." Craven said, "My dumb dad got me this short wave radio set, just so I could speak to my friends back east.

 

"But I couldn't reach anybody, I thought I was talking to nobody. I imagined that nobody was listening." looking out the sliding glass door that led to his backyard, he sighed, "Maybe I imagined one person out there."

 

He shook his head, "Anyway, one day I woke up and I realised I was never going to be normal— and so I said fuck it, I said so be it and Craven Moorehead was born."

 

Roman thumbed the edge of his yearbook's page, listening with a small frown.

 

"I never meant to hurt anyone— honestly I never meant to hurt anyone. I'm sorry, Damien. I'm sorry I never said 'Don't do it' I'm sorry." he ran a hand through his hair, "You deserved better than that."

 

Students and staff kept silent, eyes cast down and chests clenching.

 

Rolling her eyes, Drãgao scoffed.

 

"Uhm, anyway," he picked at his nails, "I'm done," he shrugged, "stick a fork in me, it's been grand." Craven leaned back, feeling defeated, "This is Craven Moorehead saying sayonara. . .over and out."

 

Roman sat up abruptly, "Come on," he pleaded, leaning toward his radio, "you can't do this."

 

"This is a joke right?"

 

"You can't let them win!"

 

"He can't be serious."

 

"C'mon, Craven baby," Remy said to his car's stereo, "don't stiff."

 

A panic began to set in, peers stared at their radios in distress, many vocally expressing their unease, to themselves or to their friends they were listening with.

 

Teachers sighed in relief, grateful they could wash their hands of the affair. Glad that Craven Moorehead had been lamented, and by his own terms, too. It was a humble end, in their opinions. Drãgao smiled.

 

Virgil fell back in his chair, the force pushing it back. _It's over, I guess._ With a frown he reflected back on everything, the points he had tried to make, the people he unintentionally hurt. He thought about the change that had been being pushed, because of him. The eyes that were being opened, being shown the fucked up mess that Sanders Side Highschool was.

 

"What am I doing. . ."

 

He was giving up; abandoning ship when things got tough. Virgil looked back at the radio set on his desk.

 

"Fuck It!" with a rush of adrenaline he pushed his chair forward and flipped the shortwave set back on.

 

"Okay, so get this," he said, shaking everyone from their racing cogitations, pulling them in to listen raptly.

 

"You hear about some kid who did something stupid, something desperate." he spoke briskly, "What possessed him? How could he do such a terrible thing? It's really quite simple actually.

 

"Consider the life of a teenager. You have parents, teachers telling you what to do. You have movies, magazines, and TV telling you what to do. But you know what you have to do." he pointed at his mic, "Your job— your purpose, is to get accepted, get a cute girlfriend, and think up something great to do with the rest of your life.

 

"But what if you're confused and can't imagine a career? What if you're not interested in getting a girlfriend? You see, no one wants to hear it, but the terrible secret is: that being young is sometimes less fun than being dead."

 

"This is great." Chep River said sarcastically, turning to his coworkers, "He's making it worse!"

 

"Suicide is wrong," Craven chided, "but the interesting thing about it is how uncomplicated it seems. There you are, you got all these problems swarming around your brain, and here is one simple— one incredibly simple solution."

 

He laughed, but there was no humor behind it, "I'm just surprised it doesn't happen every day around here. No," he cut in, "now they're going to say that I said 'offing yourself is simple', but no, no, no, no, it's not simple. It's like everything else: you have to read the fine print.

 

"For instance," he went on, "assuming there is a heaven, who would ever wanna go there, you know?" Craven questioned, "I mean think about it: sitting on this cloud, you know it's nice; it's quiet; there's no teachers; there's no parents; but guess what?" he asked rhetorically, "There's nothing to do. Fucking _boring._

 

"Another thing to remember about suicide is that it's not a pretty picture. First of all, you shit your shorts, you know." Craven informed, making many laugh slightly, "So there you are dead, people are weeping over you; crying people you never spoke to are saying, 'Why? Why? Why?' and you have a load in your shorts. That's the way I see it." he shrugged, "Sue me."

 

Drãgao scrunched up her nose, clucking her tongue.

 

"Now, they're saying I shouldn't think stuff like this. They're saying something is wrong with me, that I should be ashamed." Craven noted, "Well— I'm sick of being ashamed! Aren't you?"

 

Roman shouted, "Sick to death!"

 

"I don't mind being dejected and rejected," Craven said, "but I'm not going to be ashamed about it!"

 

Roman threw his arms up, "Hallelujah."

 

"At least pain is real." Craven jibed, "You look around and you see nothing is real, but the pain is real. You know, even this show isn't real." he shook his head, "This isn't me; I'm using a fake name and hiding away in my room! I'm a phoney fuck just like my dad, just like anybody. You see, the real me is just as worried as the rest of you.

 

"They say I'm disturbed, well of course I'm disturbed. I mean— we're all disturbed," he pointed out, "and if we're not, why not?

 

"Doesn't this blend of blindness and blandness make you want to do something crazy? Then why not do something crazy? It makes a Hell of a lot of sense than blowing your fucking brains out, you know." he laughed, then hollered, "Go nuts, go crazy, get creative! You got problems? You just chuck 'em, nuke 'em!"

 

They nodded along. People turned to their friends, looks of comprehension and giddiness.

 

"They think you're moody? Make 'em think you're crazy, make 'em think you might snap!" he shouted.

 

The students of Sanders Side High yelped in excitement.

 

"They think you got attitude? You show them some _real_ attitude! Come on, go nuts, get crazy! Hey, no more Mr. Nice Guy!"

 

Everyone did as they were told, they went off their rockers. They screamed and caterwauled incoherently until their throats went dry, and then some. People took to the streets, stomping down the stairs and leaving their homes in a commotion, not caring if they woke their parents up.

 

"Ahhhhh, oh God!" he pulled his shirt off in the bout of delirium, all while yelling in the mic with his loyal listeners. "Ahhhhh, oh yes! Fuck yes!"

 

They danced without any music, throwing their arms up and swaying their hips.

 

Craven flung himself back towards his mic, "Time out!" he said, "This is good, this is really, very interesting." he gasped for breath, "And we're just getting started. The night's still young."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Craven: AHHH GO STUPID AHHH GO CRAZY
> 
> Everyone else: loses their fucking minds


	12. Spasmolytic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A nested virus feeds eating dish  
> Aging  
> She sits alone in the worry she's created  
> More time put aside  
> Sorry, I'm fucked up inside  
> Holy hatred"

* * *

 

 

Fliers were tacked and taped all around the school, bulletin boards, lockers, the bathroom stalls. All printed on copy paper in black ink, awful font and ugly clip art.

 

Roman pulled one off of the wall, eyes squinted, "Believe It Or Not I Care: 8:30 - 3:30." he turned to Brittney, holding the paper up, "What's that?"

 

"Some new hot line Mr. Taylor's setting up." she said with a roll of her eyes.

 

Roman huffed a laugh, "Hey, it's like 8:30 in the morning so it's alright to kill myself!"

 

"Oh my God." Brittney gasped, "It's after 3:00 so I'm totally fucked."

 

They fell into a fit of giggles, shaking their heads. Roman crumpled up the flier and dropped it on the floor before heading to next period.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"How's he getting all this information?" Drãgao demanded, "I want all the locks in the school changed. I want a list of every student with relatives on the staff."

 

The teacher nodded, hurrying out of the office.

 

"Excuse me." O'Brien said, head peeking into the room, "I just found the graffiti on the roof of the cafeteria, they're taking it down now."

 

Drãgao rubbed her temple, waving him in, "What does it say?"

 

"Uhm." O'Brien hesitated, "It says: 'Drãgao's a maggot puss wad'."

 

She glared at him, "Were the cameras checked?"

 

"Yes, Corbin Blake was sent a pass to come see you."

 

She nodded, "Good. Thank you." she looked back to the files on her desk.

 

O'Brien took another step into the room, watching his boss with worry. "Things have gotten worse."

 

"I'm aware." Drãgao said, not meeting his gaze.

 

"The vandalism has tripled." he pressed, "And even with Remy Dormir gone, tapes are popping up more than ever."

 

Drãgao sighed in frustration, dragging a hand over her face, "Telling me things I already know isn't helping," she gave him a leer, "at all."

 

"Yeah," O'Brien said, "I know, it's just—"

 

"Do you think I'm not already doing everything I can?" she challenged, "Do you think I don't know about the profanities on our walls? About the obscenities they're blasting from their boomboxes? The many students that have been taken into custody last night for disturbing the peace, destruction of property, and indecency?" Drãgao's nails rapped against the wood of her desk, her forbearance running thin.

 

"I want this Craven Moorehead gone." she hissed, "They say he's a student here— I want him expelled from every school in the county. I want him to rot for feeding my students such— such _nonsense._ "

 

Drãgao scoffed, "He tells them to speak what's on their minds; to _talk hard._ " she scrunched up her nose, "Children should be seen, not heard." she rolled her eyes, "It's not like they have anything to say, anyway."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the bell rung Virgil stayed in his new hiding place, the boys bathroom. He stood against the wall that was out of view from the door. He was lucky that no one currently had the same idea, multiple times he had entered the restroom and guys had been smoking— or getting high, but that wasn't as common.

 

But the usuals weren't there at the moment, which both relieved and worried Virgil. He told himself it was the new regulations Drãgao had been enforcing, bathroom passes and sign out sheets being pushed more than ever. His little stash of passes he had taken from his father was something he should have been preserving, but class wasn't something he felt like dealing with at the moment, along with many things.

 

He tried not to dwell on his parents, or Damien, or _Roman._ But the thought of the previous night's broadcast wasn't any better, either. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? It was because of him that there were giant penises and signs of anarchy painted all over the blacktop. That someone lit Mr. Angleburger's desk on fire. Why someone thought it was a good idea to write 'Fuck a punk bitch' on Mrs. Unfuera's whiteboard in permanent marker.

 

Virgil sighed, why did people have to take everything Craven said to heart? He felt like a cult leader, a very sweaty, socially awkward cult leader.

 

"There you are."

 

 _God damn it._ Virgil hit the back of his head against the wall in frustration. He supposed it was his fault for hiding, avoiding issues instead of facing them. But he had thought that their talk from yesterday had solidified Virgil's disdain in talking to Roman, that it was over. He had thought wrong.

 

"How many times are you going to sneak up on me?" Virgil questioned, not meaning the other's eye, "You're gonna get us sent to the office."

 

"As many times as you hide from me." Roman retorted, leaning against the cold brick with him, "And it's cool, it's safe. Guess what I heard?" he spoke quickly, leaving no room for Virgil to rebuttal.

 

It seemed like Roman was ignoring the day before, too. Too bad it wasn't in the way Virgil would have preferred.

 

Virgil went along with it, "What?" he asked accordingly.

 

"You know that tall snob Nicole Zorra?" he asked excitedly, "She's a total bitch. Like last month she was spreading rumors about my friends, Patton and Logan— and just last week she called Valerie a whore." he talked animatedly, hands gesturing wildly.

 

"But anyway," Roman said, "she burned up all her shit last night right after you suggested it, in her kitchen!" he beamed, "Oh her precious pearls were flying like bullets!" he laughed, "Her Dad was un-thrilled."

 

Virgil's stomach dropped, "This is out of control."

 

"Yeess!"

 

He shook his head, "No, that's not a good thing." Virgil hugged himself, "That's it, it's over."

 

Last night was a mistake, he should have kept his word and said goodbye to Craven Moorehead. He was causing more trouble than good, this shit was contained before Craven came along— and he just had to go and open it up, to encourage everyone. He started a massive fire, and wasn't doing anything but fueling it.

 

He sighed, "I just hope it isn't too late."

 

"Virgil," Roman grabbed his arm desperately.

 

"And I already told you!" he pulled away from the other, "Leave me alone okay, please! It's over. Craven Moorehead is done." Virgil lamented, shoulders slumping, "For real this time."

 

Roman pushed off the wall, regarding Virgil with incredulity, "You can't be serious!"

 

"Look!" Virgil cried, "Roman, I don't know you!" he sighed, defeated, "Just leave me alone, please."

 

"What's with you?" Roman quired, aerate, "Why is it _now_ you don't want anything to do with me?"

 

"What are you talking about?" Virgil rebuked, fed up with pretending they hadn't already had this conversation, "Did yesterday not happen? I thought I already made things clear."

 

"That's not what I mean,” Roman huffed, “I mean, why are you avoiding me?" he said, exasperated, "Why are you acting like you suddenly don't care?"

 

Virgil looked away, "Who said I ever cared?"

 

He scoffed, "Yeah, sure, totally." Roman crossed his arms, "So the fact that you stare at me everyday when you think I don't notice— that's just a coincidence, right?"

 

Virgil stiffened, face going red, "I— I don't—"

 

"Save it, Virgil." Roman snapped, "I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I see you looking at me in class. I see you looking at me in the halls— I could go on, Virgil. And I was smart enough to figure out _your secret—_ before anyone else in this shit town could. So give me some credit."

 

Virgil shrunk in on himself, shifting his weight against the wall uncomfortably.

 

"And _you_ ," Roman pointed an accusatory finger at him, "You're obviously not as smart as you think you are— if you're unable to open your fucking eyes," he huffed, "and see that _I_ stare at _you,_ just as much as you do me."

 

Virgil looked up at him, lips parted in bewilderment.

 

"So? What is it?" Roman implored, voice cracking, "Because I'm The Chastity Minx? Because I know your dirty little secret?"

 

Virgil squared his shoulders, meeting Roman's look head on and ignoring Roman's misty eyes, "I'm straight."

 

Roman laughed wetly, "That's fucking bologna!" he shook his head, "How _stupid—_  how _fucking stupid_ do you think I am?"

 

"If. . .if you're so upset about this," Virgil said, "then why are you even talking to me?"

 

"Oh my God." Roman laughed again, wiping his eyes, "Because I like you, Edgar Allan Woe."

 

Virgil looked back down, curls falling over his face, "Yeah. . ." he mumbled, "I think you said that before."

 

"Well, clearly it needed to be repeated."

 

"Look," Virgil tried, "I'm. . .I'm sorry. . .for what I said. It's just. . ." he huffed a short chuckle, "You're pretty crazy."

 

"Yeah," Roman said, "well you make me crazy."

 

He stepped forward, Virgil pressing himself back against the wall, "Uhm, anyway. . .I was being serious."

 

"Mhm." Roman leaned forward, effectively jumbling Virgil's train of thought.

 

"About, uhm." piercing green eyes, "Being Craven. . ." soft, caramel colored skin, "I'm. . ." the sickeningly sweet smell of magnolia, "scared."

 

His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, heart rate increasing with each bit of distance Roman closed between them. He opened his mouth to speak, to come up with an excuse to bolt, but nothing came out.

 

"We need you, Virgil." Roman said lowly, "You're what we've been waiting for." he reached out, tentatively pushing Virgil's hair away from his eyes, soft fingers brushing against Virgil’s face.

 

Virgil's shaking kicked in, every nerve on edge, hyper aware of everything as if it were in slow motion. Roman's hand, that was still touching him, gently caressing his cheek with pads of his fingers. Roman's form, leaning closer and closer (reminding Virgil of his current confinements). Roman’s breath fanning over his mouth, misty and hot, mingling with his own labored breathing. The smell of cherry cough drops, something that shouldn't have smelled so appetizing.

 

Virgil’s gaze fell against his own accord, intent on Roman’s lips, ". . .I—"

 

"What's going on in here?"

 

Virgil threw his head back, unintentionally smacking his head against the wall.

 

Roman jumped back as if he were burned, hands up, "Nothing." he fibbed, "Just using the bathroom."

 

The teacher narrowed his eyes, "This school does not tolerate bullying, young man."

 

"Oh." Roman said, then nodded, "Right, of course." he turned back to Virgil, a sly yet sheepish smile on his lips, "Sorry, Virge."

 

"Uh." Virgil said dumbly, glancing at the teacher, "Yeah— I mean, uh, me too." he bit his lip, cheeks red, "We're cool?"

 

Roman nodded again, "Yup," he shuffled toward the bathroom door, the teacher watching him the whole time, "I'll see you later."

 

"You." the teacher pointed at Virgil, "Get to class, too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I told you: _nobody_ knows who he is."

 

Drãgao frowned, "We don't believe you, Corbin."

 

"I swear to you," Corbin said, "nobody's got an idea."

 

O'Brien put a hand on the back of Corbin's chair, "Well you've got to the end of the day to get an idea." he threatened, "Don't forget, your file is under review."

 

Drãgao brought her attention to O'Brien, "You better bring all enrolment files here to my office."

 

Corbin left the office with a huff, meeting his friend out in the parking lot.

 

"So, what did they do to you?"

 

"What else?" Corbin said in annoyance, taking a seat on the curb, "They asked about Craven Moorehead."

 

"God, why can't they just piss off?"

 

"I don't know, man."

 

"Hey!" a recognizable freshman ran up to the two, a smile on his face, "You Corbin?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Hi! I'm Kai." the kid said, "You're the guy that played porn on the auditorium projector, right?"

 

Corbin nodded, proud of himself, "Yeah."

 

"Cool." Kai gave him a mischievous look, "Can you get me into the P.A. system?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And that's the end of the music in The Alcove," Drãgao said, signing a document and sealing the new rule, "from now on any found defacing of school property will be expelled," she went on, regarding the others in the office with authority, "I expect all of you to enforce this, as well, and—"

 

 _"and yet students are dropping out like flies, why. . .why is that?"_ a voice said through the school's P.A. system _"Now my listeners are interested in the decision to expel Valerie Torres."_

 

"What's happening?" Drãgao demanded, looking to everyone in the room for some answer, "What's going on?"

 

 _“I’m, uhm, I'm not so sure I’m aware of anything like that,"_ a new voice said, _"I don't know what you're talking about.”_

 

"That's Mr. Taylor!" Mr. Miller proclaimed.

 

"It won't stop," one of the staff members said, fumbling with the buttons on the desk, "they're in the speaker system."

 

"Shut it off," Drãgao growled, "shut off the whole system."

 

"We can't!"

 

Drãgao stomped her foot, standing up out of her seat in rage, "Shut down the whole damn school!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Remy shook his can of spray paint, purple. He took a drag of his cigarette before pressing down on the can's nozzle, rebelling, cursing the school in colorful words on its own wall.

 

A van pulled up beside him, antenna and dishes hooked to the roof. A man with slicked back hair and a fine pressed suit stepped out, a cameraman on his heels. The man straightened his collar, checking his reflection in the side view mirror.

 

"I'm telling you, Larry!" he said, brushing imaginary dirt off his pants, "This is the story everyone's been waiting for."

 

Remy flicked his cigarette to the sidewalk, scuffing it out with the toe of his boot. "Hey, you!" he called out, "Check it out," he said, "you're the TV guy, right? Hey, you want to interview me? Hey, because I listened to the first night he was on; I'm like a mate of his."

 

Remy gestured to the school he was just vandalizing, "I used to go here, but they chucked me out for no reason, you know. Hey, check it out," he pointed to the purple paint that dripped down the bricks, "school colors, you know, instant pep rally." he shook his head, "Jesus, the smog's getting worse and worse in this town."

 

The man took his mic from the cameraman, taking a place standing next to Remy, "You ever been on camera, kid?"

 

Remy adjusted his sunglasses, "I was in one of those church ads once."

 

He eyed Remy before shrugging, "Good enough."

 

"Alright," Larry, the cameraman, said, "we're on in three. . .two. . ."

 

"This is Chep River reporting live from deep in the smoke at Sanders Side High."

 

 

* * *

 

 

O'Brien pointed at the chair, "Sit down."

 

Remy did so, not bothered, "So, anybody mind if I smoke?" he asked, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

 

"You do understand," Drãgao asked, leaning against the side of her desk, "that you're expelled, Mr. Dormir?"

 

Remy nodded, "That's cool." he flipped open the carton in his hand, pulling out a stick.

 

Drãgao glared at him, "I can quite legally expel you."

 

"Yo! Diana," Remy laughed, his cigarette pinched between his fingers, "I'm already expelled. Don't you remember? You booted me out for selling tapes."

 

"So, you're trespassing." Drãgao said, "How would you like to be arrested?"

 

Remy shrugged, pulling out a lighter, "Well that's cool too, 'cause I told them cameras to wait." he said, "I've got a lot to tell them, you know." he placed the cigarette between his lips, flipping open the lighter, "A _lot_ to tell 'em." he mumbled around the cig.

 

Drãgao clicked her tongue, watching the boy in front of her. He sat relaxed, unfazed and far too nonchalant as he flicked his lighter on, a tiny fire comjng to life. She reached forward, yanking the cigarette from Remy's lips before dropping it in the trashcan by her desk. 

 

The lighter clicked shut, the small flame snuffing out. "The fuck?" he glared up at her, his sunglasses hanging down at the bridge of his nose, his cold eyes bare and leering.

 

Drãgao scrunched up her nose, hands on her hips as she leaned forward, "And who's going to believe you," she questioned in a long drawl, "tell me, who's going to believe a degenerate like you? Who would waste their time to listen to _you_?"

 

Remy stood up, taking a short step towards Drãgao. She stepped back, her lip curled up into a disapproving scowl.

 

He jabbed a finger at her, "Maybe Craven would."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my great grandma asked me if she could read some of my writing, and i hate saying no to her so i sent her a copy of this fic and.. now im just waiting for a response.


	13. I Wanna Talk About It Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well if I'm crying inside about a thing I'm trying to hide  
> And you don't understand  
> And it gets all out of hand  
> So I turn away but that only makes you say,  
> I want to talk about it now these words won't wait"

* * *

 

 

Chep River leaned against the counter, an arrogant air about him as he held a mic up to the woman, "Is that box," he pointed vaguely towards the wall, to PO box 20710, "registered to any name?"

 

The postal clerk smiled, chewing her gum with an open mouth, "Yes, of course that box is registered to a name," she said, then shook her head, "but I can't give it out to you."

 

"But you can to me."

 

They turned to the new voice, one of Paradise Hills' detectives, sauntering up to the others, Mrs. Drãgao tailing behind him.

 

The woman straightened up, nodding, "Yes, sir, I can give it to you. I'll give it to you instantly." she turned to a filing cabinet, rifling through the files that filled it.

 

Chep nudged his cameraman, giving him a grin.

 

The clerk gave a sound of accomplishment, pulling out a folder. "That box is registered to. . ." she ran her finger down the page, tapping it against the box number once found, "a Mr. Cornelius Down Anblomi, 112 Facet." she said, smiling at the detective.

 

Drãgao shook her head, turning to the officer, "But that's the address of the school."

 

They all shared a mix of looks that varied, the more prominent ones being confusion, disappointment, and irritation.

 

Their divided looks only came to a halt when Chep's cameraman chuckled.

 

"What's so funny, Lar?" Chep questioned with a frown.

 

"It's just. . ." Larry giggled, " _Neil Down Anblomi_ , ha ha."

 

The detective huffed, Drãgao all but growled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"And so our phantom DJ's identity remains a secret."_ Chep River said, being broadcasted through the radio, _"At least for now. I have been told that F.C.C. may get involved,"_ a crash came from the Macintosh family kitchen, _"which will surely shake things up."_

 

Not getting up from the couch, Isabella leaned toward the kitchen, "Are you okay, Virgie?"

 

"Don't worry, Mom." he called back, picking up the shards from the mug he dropped.

 

 _F.C.C._ Virgil shuddered. Drãgao must have gotten desperate, if the Federal Communication Commission was being rumoured for help. He tried to shake it off, the accusation seeming too extreme, even for Drãgao.

 

"I'm not going to blow up the kitchen." he only half joked, still shaken at what Nicole Zorra had done (or at least what Roman had said she done).

 

Isabella rolled her eyes despite her tight smile, "Very funny, darling." the bad humor worked, his mother going back to listening to the news.

 

Virgil sighed, dropping the ceramic pieces back on the ground, shielding his face with his hands. He took a deep breath, roughly massaging his forehead with his fingertips.

 

"Listen to this!" Howard yelled, motioning toward the radio, "Virgil, have you ever even listened to this character?"

 

He forced an even voice, "No," Virgil called back from the kitchen floor, "not exactly listened." he stuttered another shaky breath.

 

"Well, he's knocking the best school in the district," Howard said disapprovingly, "and apparently, he goes there."

 

"Dad, it's not exactly," Virgil leaned toward the trash can, throwing away the broken mug, "the _best_ school in the district," he said, struggling to push himself up to get the paper towels off the counter, "There are some problems with it."

 

Howard scoffed, "You don't rock the boat, especially when you're sitting in it." he clicked his tongue, "Anyway, we should get going, I don't want to be late."

 

"C'mon, Virgil," Isabella called, "it's your fathers big meeting."

 

"Coming." he said back, standing up on wobbly legs, throwing the used paper towels away, "Let me get my shoes."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Good evening, on behalf of myself and the staff at Sanders Side High." Drãgao said, standing on the stage of the auditorium, "I wish to thank you for turning out in such numbers." the cheap school speakers crackled when she spoke to close to the mic, "I congratulate you on your concern."

 

Virgil's leg bounced, concealing his disdain for the packed auditorium and the principal on the stage.

 

"Now, before we begin," Drãgao went on, "I would like to introduce our new school commissioner— fresh from several educational triumphs on the east coast: Howard Macintosh." Virgil's father stood up, giving a curt wave to the rest of the room, receiving unsynchronized claps and making Virgil shrink back in his seat.

 

"Before I introduce the rest of our speakers for this evening—"

 

"Excuse me, Mrs Drãgao," a parent in the crowd spoke up, "can we just skip the preliminaries and find out what you're doing about all this?"

 

There were murmurs of agreement.

 

Drãgao glared, "Well, when I introduce Mr. Taylor he'll talk about our twenty-four hour hotline."

 

"Wait a minute," another parent interrupted, "the kids who need the most help are, like, those with drug problems, they don't go in for all that."

 

Virgil toyed with the cuff of his button up, compelled to silently agree.

 

"I know kids." another said, "I mean, they just wanna be happy."

 

"Frankly," someone else chimed in, "this radio person is the whole problem. Are we going to allow this guy to be heard by anyone who turns a dial?"

 

Virgil almost made a break for it, one foot in the aisle, before he stopped, a girl had just stumbled into the auditorium, and no one else seemed to have noticed. Her hair was a disarray, her makeup smeared, and her gaze frantic. He watched her clamber down the aisle, she moved like a wild animal, back hunched over and moving low to the ground.

 

"I work with teenage gangs in the city," Virgil glanced back at the parents, "I say we go after this guy."

 

"How do you expect to find him? Do you think they haven't tried?"

 

Virgil looked back to the girl, eyes searching the room when he couldn't find her. When she did catch his gaze, he could only watch on, confused and curious, as she shuffled up the short staircase, up onto the stage.

 

"Yes." Drãgao said, "I agree, this DJ is to blame," she seethed, not noticing the girl that inched closer, "We are trying everything we can to apprehend this juvenile, if you could just—"

 

The girl made herself known to those who hadn't already seen her, pushing herself in front of Drãgao, shoving her out of the way and scrambling for the podium for balance.

 

Drãgao's shoulders raised, staring at the girl in disgust as she breathed into the mic.

 

"My name is Nicole Zorra, and I have something to say to you people." she said loudly, the speakers popping, "People are saying that Craven is introducing bad things— and encouraging bad things."

 

Parents and teachers stared at her, too befuddled and transfixed to shoo her away.

 

"But it seems to me that these things were already here. My God, why don't you people _listen_?" she shouted, "He's trying to tell you something is wrong with this school! Half the people that _are_ here are on a probation of some kind.

 

"We are all really scared to be who we really are. I am not perfect." she cried, "I've just been going through the motions of being perfect— and inside I'm screaming!" she proved her point by yelling incoherently, pushing over the podium before running off the stage.

 

Everyone stood up, talking amongst themselves as they watched Nicole sprint out of the auditorium.

 

Drãgao sighed, shaking her head, "Oh, Nicole," she clicked her tongue, "you were a model student."

 

Reporters and journalists swarmed Nicole as she stepped outside, shoving microphones and flashing cameras at her.

 

"Do you know who he is?" a reporter demanded, "Are you prepared to do anything he says?"

 

Nicole yanked the mic out of his hands, "Can you hear me?" she asked, leaning toward a camera, "Don't listen to them!" she yelled, "Don't listen to any of them, stay on!" she sounded near hysterical, pleading with the phantom DJ, "Stay hard!"

 

"Are you on drugs?"

 

She growled, "Talk hard!" baring her teeth at any camera they turned to her, "Talk Hard!"

 

Virgil gaped as he watched the situation unfold, body unmoving and mind racing.

 

"Mr. Macintosh."

 

He snapped his head to the side. Drãgao stood beside him, hands clasped behind herself.

 

Virgil swallowed hard. Even while being a whole head shorter than him, Drãgao was still the most intimidating woman he's ever known.

 

"May I please speak with you?" she asked, tone clipped and impatient.

 

Virgil's mouth worked, only for his father to speak, "Of course," he said before turning to Virgil's mother, "I'll meet you two in the parking lot, stay safe with all of those nuts out there." he gave her a kiss and stepped around Virgil, walking off toward the door.

 

Drãgao gave Virgil and Isabella a curt nod and a fake smile before following Howard out.

 

Virgil watched their backs retreat, his breathing picking up.

 

"I've got a lot of homework," he said to his mother, taking a step backwards, "I'm gonna take off, alright?

 

Isabella grabbed his wrist, "Virgil," she said softly, "I know why you're really going home." she shook her head disapprovingly, "It's because you wanna listen to that show tonight, don't you?"

 

Virgil let out a relieved sigh, which his mother mistook.

 

"I knew it." she said, "Not you, too."

 

"No, no, Mom." he soothed, gently pulling himself from her grip, "I promise," his chest tightened, "It's not like that."

 

She hesitated, she didn't look like she believed her son, a tight lipped frown on her face, eyes gleaming. Eventually Isabella nodded, looking away and letting Virgil scurry away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He pulled on his collar, loosening his tie and huffing at the relief it gave him. Virgil leaned back in his chair, toying with the cuff of his sleeve. He spared a glance at his digital clock, 11:46. Shaking his head, he pushed his chair away from his desk, putting as much distance between him and his shortwave radio as possible.

 

It felt like no matter what he did, or what he said people wouldn't get it. These people were too pent up. Instead of turning on the faucet, and letting it drain out steadily, Craven had taken a sledgehammer to the dam, letting it all flow out. Drowning them.

 

A knock on the sliding glass snapped him out of his train of thought. Roman stood on the other side of the door, a hand behind his back. He waved to him, then pointed at the lock. Virgil debated whether or not he should ignore the other, before deciding against it, standing up and twisting the knob's lock.

 

Roman beamed, opening the door and stepping inside, "Hi!" he looked around the room, inspecting it with a smile (and Virgil briefly remembered this was the first time Roman had ever been in his room).

 

Virgil collapsed back into his uncomfortable swivel chair.

 

"What are you doing?" Roman asked, stepping forward, "You having fun?"

 

Virgil nodded, face void of emotion, "Yeah."

 

"Hey, look," he handed Virgil a rolled up bunch of posters, "I took some of these off the wall for you."

 

Virgil unraveled them, making a noise at the _Delinquent Phantom DJ Must Be Stopped_ that was printed on the poster board.

 

"I mistakenly thought you might want them."

 

Virgil rolled them back up, setting them to the side, "Thanks."

 

"So," Roman said, "I guess you're not going on tonight."

 

"Brilliant." Virgil answered, staring at his desk.

 

"Is this all just a game to you?" Roman asked quietly, "You know you can't just shout fire in a theatre and walk out." he took a step closer, "You have a responsibility for the people who believe in you."

 

Virgil didn't say anything, leaving Roman feeling ignored.

 

"What is this?" Roman implored, "C'mon say something, say anything!" he pleaded, still getting nothing, "Open your mouth and say _get the Hell out of here, bitch._ "

 

Virgil sighed, "I can't."

 

"You can't what?"

 

Virgil shrugged, still staring at his desk, "I can't talk."

 

"Sure you can talk." Roman said, sounding confused.

 

"I can't talk to you." Virgil glanced at him before quickly looking away, "Not in the way you want me to."

 

He pushed his chair forward, flipping the switches of his radio on, pulling his mic forward.

 

"Okay, so, I got a letter from this guy who's got a problem, he can't talk." Craven said, licking his lips, "I mean, he can talk, but never when he wants to, not to the person he likes, not to people."

 

Howard looked at his wife, then back to the radio, "I can't believe it's as bad as they say."

 

Isabella made a face, gesturing to turn the radio down.

 

Howard did so, looking to her for an explanation.

 

"You can't hear that?"

 

"He just opened up his mouth and nothing came out." Craven went on, "And this jerk finds somebody that he likes, which is probably the _worst_ thing to happen to a person who can't talk.

 

"So, I don't know what to tell this guy because lately every time I give out advice. . ." he sighed, "So I don't know, maybe the best thing to do is just turn around and face the music and try to talk."

 

"Virgil!" Isabella called from outside his bedroom door.

 

Virgil scrambled to turn off the mic, "Coming!" he shouted.

 

"Virgil it's just us," his mother called in, turning the knob but it was locked, "I wanna come in for a minute."

 

Virgil stood up, nearly knocking his chair over as he turned to Roman, who was looking just as panicked as he was.

 

"Yeah," he called out, "just give me a second here," he pointed to his closet, ushering Roman to hide, "two seconds."

 

"Virgil, unlock the door." his father commanded.

 

He turned back to his radio, turning it off as fast as he could, shaking fingers stumbling as they tried to shut it off.

 

"Virgil, can you hear us?"

 

"Yes, yes." he called back.

 

"We wanna come in." his mother said.

 

"Open the goddamn door." his father said.

 

Virgil looked around, making sure everything was safe, "On my way."

 

He nearly tripped on his way to the door, unlocking it and stepping back as his father swung it open.

 

"Your mother and I have been out there for two minutes," Howard scolded, "what the hell are you doing in here?"

 

Virgil shrugged, "I was just reading."

 

"Oh, c'mon, Virgil, we heard you," Isabella accused, "we heard you talking."

 

"I was reading aloud." Virgil tried, cringing internally.

 

Howard rolled his eyes, "Oh c'mon do you really expect us to believe that?"

 

Virgil looked at his father, then to his mother. He sighed, slumping his shoulders, "Okay," he grimaced, "I'll tell you the truth."

 

"He was talking to me." Roman declared, stepping out of Virgil's closet, "Hi," he held out his hand, "I'm Roman Prince."

 

Isabella gaped at him in surprise, "Nice to meet you," she took his hand, "how do you do?"

 

He turned to Virgil's father, putting on a good mask of grief, "I was afraid you would be mad at me for disturbing Virgil's homework."

 

Isabella couldn't look any less upset, grinning ear to ear, "You don't know how happy we are to meet you."

 

"Listen," Roman said, taking a step back, "I gotta go, but it was really nice to have met you, Mr. and Mrs. Macintosh," he smiled at Virgil, almost too friendly to pass, "bye, Virgil."

 

"No, you don't have to go." Virgil's mother frowned, "Virgil, he doesn't have to go."

 

"Bye now," Roman said, stepping out the sliding glass door, "see you tomorrow."

 

When he was gone Howard turned to his son, looking relieved, "So you have made friends," he said, "I'm glad. I was worried."

 

"You know for a second there," Isabella giggled, sharing a look with her husband, "we thought you were that crazy DJ character."

 

Virgil swallowed, crossing his arms before he mumbled, "Maybe he's not that crazy, y'know?"

 

"Right!" Howard laughed heartily, "Very funny." he slapped his son's back, "Now go get your friend, go on. Homework can wait."

 

Isabella nodded, "Yeah."

 

They left him with with twin grins, closing the door behind themselves.

 

Virgil went back to his seat, flopping back he could feel an immense amount of tension leave his body. He felt a little rush of adrenaline, the effects of Roman imbuing himself into Virgil's, otherwise tediously cautious, life. It was the same thrill he got when he put on his Craven Moorehead persona; exciting, freeing, while still being absolutely terrifying.

 

He scooched forward, turning his radio and mic back on, "Sorry about that folks," Craven apologized, "technical difficulties. Lets see who we have out there tonight, hey. The usual band of teenage malcontents." he chuckled, "I certainly hope so, because Craven Moorehead is feeling kind of rude tonight."

 

"I'm so proud of him." Isabella smiled.

 

"Like father, like son." Howard agreed.

 

"Oh, I feel good," Craven moaned obscenely, "damn."

 

That night the listeners were more than antsy, nearly everyone and their grandmother were listening, ready for the next impression Craven Moorehead was going to make.

 

"And guess what?" he asked, enthusiastic, "The big news! The emergency PTA meeting to discuss yours truly. Yes, all the professionals have come out to talk about little old me, and now they've all run home to tune in and listen to what they've all been talking about."

 

Parents hung their heads in disappointment, their _oh so ingenuous_ children being exposed to such vulgar perversity.

 

"They say that I am dillusioned, demented, deranged— and so, guess what I say?" he asked rhetorically, on the edge of his seat, "SO BE IT!" he shouted, then laughed, "I say rise up in the cafeterias and stab them with your plastic forks! I say flogging and flatulence for Mrs. Drãgao— she gets a hundred lashes for every kid she's hounded out of that fucking place."

 

His eyes fell to the posters that leaned against his desk, a visible number printed on the paper. He smiled, grabbing the roll and unraveling it to reveal the suicide hotline number.

 

"I say down with all guidance counsellors," Craven said, "make them work for a living." he chuckled, picking up his phone, "I can't stay away from this man! Oh, I gotta give him another call." he dialed the number, nearly singing when it started to ring, "Here I come, Trav."

 

It picked up, _"Hotline."_ a dispatcher said on the other end, _"Believe it or not we care."_

 

"Believe it or not this is Craven Moorehead," Craven grinned, "and I would like the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Taylor."

 

 _"Just a moment,"_ the dispatcher rushed, _"I'll see if he's available."_

 

"I love it, the bitch is putting me on hold." Craven chuckled, "I'm waiting for you." he cooed, "You can run, but you can not hide, Mr. Taylor."

 

His listeners attended with baited breath.

 

The line picked up again, _"Hello, my young friend."_

 

Craven simpered, "You're in on it right, Mr. Taylor?"

 

 _"It's all over, son.”_ Travis said, sounding quite pleased, _“This phone call has been traced and whoever you are, you're history."_

 

"Well," Craven said, shrugging, "so be it."

 

"Don't just sit there, man," Remy shouted at his car radio (despite no one being able to hear him), "run!"

 

"Don't worry about me," Craven exulted, "I'm alright."

 

Someone tapped on the glass, gazing in and giving him a sultry look that made the pace of his heart pick up.

 

He pushed his hair out of his face, smiling, "You see, I bet what's happening out there is that the police are busting some old couple who have been unknowingly supplying me with my phone fees."

 

Craven leaned towards his mic, breathing heavily, "I am everywhere." he drawled, "I am inside each and every single one of you. Just look in and I will be there waving out, yeah," he rested his head against the palm of his hand, "naked, wearing only a cock ring," he chuckled.

 

He glanced at his digital clock, "Wow," he said dramatically, "time flies when you're on the run." he rifled through his stack of cassettes that sat beside his radio, "I'm gonna cut out now with this unusual song," he swallowed, looking over to his sliding glass door, "I'm dedicating to an unusual person, who makes me feel kind of unusual."

 

He popped in the tape, hitting play before he stood up, making his way to the door.

 

Roman stood there in the middle of his yard, only his outline visible from a distance, the cloudy night making it near pitch black.

 

Ivan Neville's 'Why Can't I Fall In Love?' could be heard from the inside.

 

Virgil swallowed down his nerves and stepped closer, his legs feeling numb; but he must have been walking because he was getting closer, able to see Roman clearer. The way he was regarding Virgil, thoughtful and soft.

 

"It's okay," Roman murmured, "you don't have to talk, you don't have to say anything and you don't have to do anything, unless you want to."

 

Virgil bit his lip, willing himself to keep eye contact (the dark helping), "You're so different." he said, then stammered, "I mean, you're so fearless. I. . .I wish I could be like you."

 

Virgil flinched when Roman touched his wrist, relaxing into the touch as he caressed his skin, "You are."

 

He felt like his whole body was on fire, Roman's touch trailing down his tendon to the heel of his hand, "I wish I could say things to you."

 

"You do."

 

Virgil shook his head, his hands shaking, "Everything's so strange."

 

Roman nodded, "Yeah."

 

Virgil stared at him, sweeping his eyes over Roman's face like he had many times before, "Maybe we're just crazy." he whispered.

 

Virgil hadn't noticed the closing distance between them, not until Roman took another step forward. Virgil could feel Roman's body heat and smell magnolia again. Roman was leering at him like a dare, or maybe a question; sanction.

 

"So be it." he whispered back.

 

Virgil licked his lips, moving even closer still, their chests brushing, then their noses.

 

The soft base of the music shook Virgil to his core as Roman laced their fingers together; his other hand coming up to stroke his jaw, pulling him closer.

 

He let his eyes slip shut, imposing himself not to reel back at the soft press of lips. He let himself get lost in the feeling. The warm and slick sensation of their lips proding, of pulling away for a mere inch before going back in, the wet smacking domineering Ivan Neville's singing.

 

A fire burned in Virgil's gut, roaring and searing and desperate. Roman's lips were soft and hot, branding their claim on Virgil's mouth so delicately he ached.

 

Loud sirens and flashing red and blue lights oppressed both the song, and their kiss, Roman pulling away with a jolt, "It's the cops!"

 

"It's okay," Virgil breathed, running his fingers through his curls, "I think they're just dropping in on my neighbour."

 

He was right, the twin cop cars pulling up in the driveway across the street.

 

Roman's eyebrows raised, visibly impressed.

 

Virgil looked down at their conjoined hands. He ran his tongue over his lips, the phantom feeling of Roman's making his stomach flutter prodigiously.

 

"So," Roman said, getting his attention, "are you really wearing a cock ring?" he smirked.

 

Virgil shook his head, ears burning, "I've never even seen one." he admitted, somewhat shamefully.

 

"Oh yeah?" Roman asked, still grinning.

 

"Yeah," he said, shrinking a little, "I read about them in a magazine."

 

Roman tugged him closer, "Maybe I don't believe you." he purred, his free hand grasping ahold of Virgil's belt, unfastening it as he pressed wet kisses to his neck.

 

Virgil gasped, trying to push Roman away, "I swear, what are you doing?"

 

He hummed, gently sinking his teeth into the meat of Virgil's neck.

 

Virgil yelped, shoving him back, "I have neighbors, stop!"

 

Roman did as he was told, pulling back with an amused grin, "So, you can talk when you want to."

 

"Yes," Virgil panted, "I can."

 

Roman pressed back in, placing a firm kiss on his mouth, lingering when he pulled away, "Maybe we should pause first stage personal identification." he said before taking a step back, "I gotta go."

 

"Oh," Virgil said, still gasping for air, "yeah, it's pretty late."

 

"I'll see you, Virgil." Roman said, going to leave.

 

"Yeah," he nodded, then waved, "uh, see ya."

 

Roman chuckled, waving back as he retreated down the street, the streetlamps lighting his path as Virgil watched on, their song fading out with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this chapter feels rushed or out of place, i didn't go back and prrof read this time even though i should have
> 
> also my great grandma read this whole fic up to the last chapter, and she loved it. she asked if she could show her friend ;-; i love her so much,, the support,,, my heart
> 
> also, rachel, if you're reading this, thank you so much for not hating this and for being so supportive
> 
> all of your guys' kind words means the world to me <3


	14. Can't Deny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know I can't deny the way I feel inside  
> I won't be hiding my love  
> You know I can't disguise you're always on my mind  
> And now I can't get enough"

* * *

 

 

Roman stared out of the car window, head in his hand and expression dazed. Trees and houses passed by in the dark, early morning, all going unseen as Roman replayed the events of the previous night. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel Virgil's pliant and hesitant mouth on his, taste his blackjack gum and the faint bit of Pepsi. Roman sighed; he was suddenly craving a can of Pepsi.

 

 _"—and local officials still have little idea of the identity of this so called Craven Moorehead,"_ Chep River relayed through the car's radio, _"though many are convinced he is a student at this school."_

 

Roman's father made a disgruntled noise, "Now, do you know anything about that?" he asked, eyes still on the road.

 

Roman shook his head, sighing dreamily. Dark mess of curls, flushed cheeks, gray eyes that sparkled in the moonlight. . . "Not a thing, Dad."

 

"It's ridiculous," his father went on, "Who does this kid think he is?"

 

A philosopher in his own right, a poetic genius, a righteous mind. He was too humble for his own good, his brilliance outshining any of their peers.

 

Roman was unable to bite back his smile, "A real man."

 

His father spared him a glance, eyeing his son's expression critically, "You're not. . ." he frowned worriedly, "on drugs, are you?"

 

 _Only the drug of love_ , Roman thought to himself, "No, Dad." he said, "It's just—" he sighed, "such a lovely day outside."

 

Roman's dad glared, "You are on drugs, aren't you?"

 

Roman huffed dramatically, "Y'know, Dad," he said, a little nettled, "I think Craven Moorehead is onto something. Haven't you noticed how fu—" he cleared his throat, " _messed_ _up_ this school is?" he went on vehemently, “You know the principal, Mrs. Drãgao? She _actually_ has it out for students! One slip up and you're done, kaput!"

 

He gestured wildly with his hands, "This school is awful," he said, "and Craven is just making it obvious. He's doing a— a great— an _amazing_ thing! He's started a movement! A revolution!"

 

When he got no response right away he proceeded in his rant, "He speaks up for everyone. He's what this school— what this _town_ needs. This place is a disaster! The school was already falling apart before he spoke up— the system just wants shove the blame onto him." he shook his head, "It's not his fault."

 

Roman stared at his dad, who hadn't said anything, "Do you get it, Dad?" he asked, "Do you get how important this is?"

 

His father remained silent, leering ahead as Roman sat there in anticipation.

 

He expected his father to bite, to snap and tell him that everything he had said was ludicrous, that Craven Moorehead was a degenerate— and that Roman should know better than to listen to him. But he waited quietly, hoping that his father understood; hoped that he had piqued his interest, enough to rant about the immoral high school and its staff.

 

(A parent on their side would be a good asset in the near future, an adult on Craven's side could do a number on Drãgao's name. And how elated Virgil would be once he would find out that Roman had convinced his own father that Craven was on the right.)

 

Roman leaned forward, twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

 

"So," his father finally said; still staring ahead, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, "you really are on drugs."

 

Roman threw his head back and groaned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"No, Howard everything is under control." Drãgao insisted, twirling the phone cord between her fingers, "I've just ordered psychiatric evaluations on a couple of the key troublemakers. I can do whatever I like, it's my school, Commissioner." she sassed into the receiver, "No you're not coming over here, Mr. Macintosh, you'll only upset me more, goodbye!" she slammed the phone down on her desk.

 

Drãgao straightened her back and smoothed out her blouse, turning around and facing Mr. Taylor.

 

"Well," she said, gesturing to the documents on her desk, "shall we have a look at these files, or shall we discuss the identity of our DJ friend?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So, they're letting her keep the baby?" Roman asked, kicking his legs from his seat on the short wall.

 

"They're thinking about it," Patton replied, "Her mom is. . .trying to be understanding and accepting."

 

"And her dad?" Roman questioned.

 

"He's less than enthused," Logan supplied, "He wishes to. . .oh, what did he say?" he tapped his chin, "Oh, yes. Her father wishes to bash Bobby Afton's head in with--"

 

"He's not too happy." Patton cut in, giving Logan a look.

 

He adjusted his glasses, "I was merely filling in the details."

 

Roman crossed his arms, unperturbed by any gray details, "What does Bobby have to say about all this?"

 

Patton's shoulders slumped, "He hasn't been returning her calls."

 

Scoffing, Roman leered, "What a coward! He can't take fucking—"

 

"Language—"

 

"responsibility for something that—"

 

"Roman," Logan tried, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "You're sentiments are in the right place, and you are right to 'call Bobby out' on this, but—"

 

"Guys," Patton interrupted once more, "I think the best thing we can do is stay by Valerie's side, no matter what."

 

He knew Patton was right, Val needed all the support she could get. It was up to them to stand by her and help her through this. Roman wasn't any less angry, though. He swore to himself: if he ever saw that greasy son of a bitch, Bobby Afton, he _was gonna—_

 

Torn, black jeans, An _Alice In Chains_ band tee, and a purple flannel thrown on over top. Virgil was looking as perfect as always, with his floppy, curly hair and laced up combat boots.

 

Everything was practically white noise when the two made eye contact from across the courtyard. Roman smiled as casually as he could and gave a short wave. Virgil was visibly indecisive as he waved back, stiff and timorous, an unsure smile gracing his lips and melting Roman's heart.

 

The interaction was short and sweet, Virgil quickly heading through the school's doors.

 

Roman waited for him to be out of sight before he released his breath, sighing in contentment and fancy.

 

Patton giggled, and just like that, their previous conversation was put on the backburner.

 

Roman ignored the proding, inquisitive looks his friends were giving him, "What?" he posed challengingly.

 

"Was that, Virgil?" Patton grinned.

 

"Who?" Roman countered, turning his head away indignantly.

 

"I believe he was the one with the 'dreamy eyes'." Logan allocated, giving an amused smile.

 

"And the one who's at the perfect kissing height?" Pattin added.

 

"I said: _he's about my height_. Stop putting words in my mouth!"

 

"So, that was Virgil."

 

Roman huffed and crossed his arms, the other two busied themselves with poking fun at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

First period was a drag, surprisingly. Mrs. Williams was nowhere to be seen, a substitute taking her place, giving no explanation for her absence. It wouldn't have been so bad, if the sub hadn't been such a stiff.

 

No talking, no passing notes, no laughing, no copying someone else's work, chewing gum— no looking over your shoulder to admire the cute boy behind you. Okay, so the last one only really applied to Roman; but it was still annoying.

 

He wondered what Virgil was thinking about the substitute, if he even noticed they had one. Roman bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to get in trouble for giggling. Virgil probably had his nose stuck in a book ( _he's almost as bad as Logan,_ Roman surmised jocosely, _though it's much more attractive with Virgil_ ). If he was reading or writing, Roman wished he knew.

 

The curiosity was killing him. However, the urge to talk to Virgil, to have a repeat of the previous night left an even worse itch.

 

That's what led him back to the library during lunch, telling his friends that his job as the librarian's aid was calling. Which they bought, thankfully, with no questions asked.

 

The next task was to find where his paramour was hiding. Knowing his disdain for people, and interacting with them, Roman deducted that he was stowed away in the back.

 

He swept the long aisles and shelves zealously, a pep in his step and an excited oscillation in his chest.

 

Roman had proven himself right; poking his head around a corner— the second to last aisle in the far back of the room— sat on the carpeted floor, back pressed against the shelf with a book balanced in his lap (Roman never thought he'd be jealous of a book) was Virgil Macintosh in all his edgy, breathtaking glory, his finished lunch sat off to the side, by his backpack, a crumpled paper bag and an empty, crushed pepsi can.

 

He looked relaxed, at ease despite the growing anarchy he was currently behind. It was nice seeing him get a break from the stress. It was too bad, Roman thought, he had to disrupt it.

 

Rounding the corner, he took a quick step closer, "Hey, Virgil." he said, announcing himself.

 

Virgil's head snapped up, tensing at the sudden sound, cheeks flushing in a way that made Roman's knees weak.

 

"Hey," Virgil said back, smiling uneasily, peering up at Roman through his mess of curls.

 

Roman's poor, smitten heart fluttered. He grinned back, "How was your night?" he asked, taking a seat on the floor beside the other.

 

Virgil shrugged, toying with a page of his book, "It was alright."

 

Roman carefully leaned his shoulder against Virgil's, testing the waters. He flinched, but strainingly forced himself to relax— shyly nudging Roman back. A tremendous win, in Roman's opinion. But he was the type to push things, to take risks out of impulse. So, without too much thought— only pausing to bite his lip— he brought his mouth to Virgil's ear, in a breathy murmur he asked, "Did you think about me?"

 

A shudder wracked through the other, and when Roman pulled away it was to find Virgil's face a bright red, his eyes blown wide.

 

"Roman." he hissed.

 

Roman adored how frazzled he looked.

 

"What?" he asked in feign innocence, eyelashes batting diffidently.

 

"You can't just—" Virgil cut himself short, opting to stare down at the book in his lap.

 

Yet again, Roman found himself jealous of that glorified stack of paper.

 

"I thought it was a good question," he teased, nosing at Virgil's (very warm) cheek— eliciting a surprised whine. "For what it's worth," Roman said, "I thought about you."

 

Virgil snapped his eyes back to him, before quickly looking away again. His mouth opened and closed, no actual words coming out.

 

"Oh, and I mean," Roman continued as if he didn't make himself clear, "I thought about _you,_ " he explained, grinning mischievously, " _all_ of you."

 

Virgil looked ready to combust: his face the color of a tomato, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead— all of it. His hands shook profusely, gripping his book desperately. Maybe it was a little cruel, Roman would admit. But Virgil was just too endearing when he got all embarrassed. It was so charming, bewitching even— and sure, it stroked Roman's ego, but could you blame him? The cutest— prettiest— most handsome boy he had ever laid eyes on— got flustered by _Roman's_ flirting. It made Roman swell up with pride and greed.

 

Roman was quickly becoming a glutton for Virgil; not that he was complaining.

 

"Don't worry," Roman went on, nudging him lightly, "You weren't by yourself— I was there, too."

 

"Jesus Christ, Roman." Virgil muttered, running a jittery hand through his hair. Roman resisted the urge to tangle his own fingers in Virgil's dark locks.

 

"What?" Roman provoked.

 

Virgil shook his head, glancing around them. As expected, they were still the only ones there, "You can't say something like that." he explained, turning back to Roman, "You can't just say that."

 

Roman almost laughed at the hypocrisy: memories of a certain DJ mock-moaning into a mic coming to mind. Virgil had some nerve calling Roman out on his impure vocalization, Virgil himself having pretended to jerk off to his own ideas and philosophical ideology— and broadcasted it for all to hear, no less.

 

Roman smiled, furrowing his brows in an apologetic manner, "You're right." he said, "Sorry."

 

Virgil's shoulders slumped, if it was in relief or disappointment, Roman could not tell; which only helped fuel Roman even more.

 

"You're right. I can't just _say_ things like that." Roman huffed, his mouth twisting into a grin, "I'm gonna have to _show_ you."

 

Virgil visibly swallowed; he opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but Roman cut him off, "I could swing by your place after school. . ." he said, acting coy, "Or I could just. . ."

 

Virgil watched him acutely, taut like a rubber band ready to snap.

 

Roman hesitated, nervous himself. Virgil had already shot down his advances many times before, though Roman held on to last night tightly; longing that it wasn't a mistake on Virgil's end, that he meant it. That they were finally going to start acting on their shared desire for one another.

 

Taking a chance, Roman placed a hand on Virgil's knee— it jolting in turn, before relaxing as much as it could. "I could. . ." Roman licked his lips, "show you now?"

 

Virgil didn't lower his stare at him, only now he was left stupefied by the suggestion. Roman expected this; but still squirmed. He forced himself to keep up his coquettish appearance, while inside, inside— his stomach was in knots.

 

"You— you can't be serious." Virgil said, shrinking in on himself, "Roman, we're in school."

 

 _That wasn't a no._ Roman told himself.

 

"And if we weren't?" he pressed, leaning into Virgil's space.

 

"People could see us— could catch us." Virgil stated, not answering the question.

 

"No one comes to the library," Roman quickly assured, "And it's lunch— and we're way in the back. No one will see us."

 

Virgil didn't look convinced, "Someone could hear us."

 

Roman smirked, arching a brow, "Do you plan on being loud?"

 

Virgil shrunk back more, his back sliding against the shelf as he slid away, "Roman. . ." Virgil whined, hugging his book to his chest.

 

Roman leaned closer, Virgil slipping off the side of the shelf, back now on the ground, holding himself up on his elbows.

 

He planted a hand beside Virgil's head, hovering over him in a way Roman hoped was seductive.

 

"I love it when you say my name." Roman conceded in a purr, nearly flushing himself against the boy below him.

 

Virgil went to sit up, but stopped when they came close to touching, "I can't," he confessed, looking at Roman pleadingly, ". . .I can't."

 

"You can't what?"

 

Virgil bit his lip (and Roman just wanted to pry those lips apart with his tongue), "I— I don't think I can give you what. . .what you want."

 

"And what do you think I want?"

 

"I don't know!" Virgil cried out, covering his face, "I just know I _can't_! Just. . .what if I'm not good enough? What if you don't like it. . ." He slumped back onto the ground, defeated, "I don't think I can keep up with you."

 

The proclamation was a shock, to say the least. Craven Moorehead himself, known broadly as a sexual deviant— was afraid he couldn't please Roman.

 

He couldn't help it: he laughed.

 

"You're so cute, Virgil." Roman cooed, still giggling as he swept Virgil's hair out of his face, "so _so_ cute." he dipped down, pecking him on the lips (his own tingling as he pulled away), "I could just eat you up."

 

Virgil huffed in annoyance, looking away, "It's not funny, Roman."

 

Roman pursed his lips, seeing how he wasn't making any progress, and how he hurt Virgil's feelings in the process. He had opened up, expressed to Roman his insecurities— and Roman laughed. He could recognize how harsh that could seem (not that he meant it to).

 

Thinking of a way to reassure his crush, he grabbed the book Virgil was reading, yanking it from his hold and turning it over to read the cover: _Primed for Desire—_  yeah, Virgil was a hypocrite.

 

He tossed the book to the side carelessly, earning a _Hey!_ in protest.

 

"I like you, Virgil." Roman reminded, "I really, _really_ like you."

 

Virgil took a moment, eyes cast to the ceiling and brows pinched.

 

"I don't think you do," he said.

 

Roman wanted to yell in frustration— why was it so— so _tedious_ to get Virgil to realize that _yes_ , Roman liked him. _Yes,_ Roman fantasized about him and _yes,_ Roman wanted to be with him.

 

He couldn't wrap his head around it, and was about to say as much, only Virgil beat him to it, "You like Craven."

 

". . .What?" Roman mumbled.

 

"You like Craven." Virgil repeated, "Not me. You like— you like the _idea_ of me. But. . .not me."

 

Forget yelling, Roman was going to scream. He ran a hand over his face, groaning, "Oh my god, Virgil, are you serious?" he gave Virgil a pointed look, "I've _told_ you. I stare at you—"

 

"All the time, yeah I get that." Virgil said, "But that's only because you know I'm. . ."

 

Even though it didn't have any positive affect before, Roman laughed again (which got another glare).

 

When he was finished, he smiled still, leaning down and settling himself more comfortably as he hovered over Virgil.

 

"Trust me Virgil," he soothed, "I had the hots for you _way_ before I suspected you were Craven Moorehead."

 

Though his blush never really went away, it came back as dark as it was before, ". . .Really?" he asked quietly.

 

"Of course, JD-lightful." Roman poked playfully, "Kind of hard not to."

 

"Jesus Christ, shut up." Virgil said with a roll of his eyes.

 

"It's true! You wouldn't believe how many times I've spaced out while looking at you," he smiled, almost sheepishly, "Or had a wet dream about you."

 

Virgil's hands were visibly shaking, laced over his chest like he didn't know where to put them. "No you didn't."

 

Roman nodded, "A few; not so much anymore," he said, "I don't need to be sleeping to get off to the thought of you."

 

Virgil didn't say anything, and refused to meet Roman's eyes. His chest rose and fell heavily, trying to take even breaths.

 

"I imagine you," Roman went on, "taking me, fucking me, splitting me open with your cock." Virgil's eyes squeezed shut, "Or it's the other way around," Roman said, "and I fuck you while you beg for more."

 

Virgil was biting his lip, so hard Roman thought he was going to draw blood.

 

"Would you like that?" Roman pressed, tone low and raspy, "You've thought about it, too, haven't you? You wanna fuck me, I know you do. But that's okay, because I want you to fuck me, too. _God_ , Virgil I want—" Roman was tugged down by his collar, gasping as his mouth pressed against Virgil's in a rough kiss.

 

He groaned, victory was his as he meshed their mouths together. Unlike the night before, which was slow, desperate, a confirmation between the two of them— this was rough and uncoordinated, their noses bumping and their teeth clacking together.

 

It was no less hot, Roman's gut searing and chest tight. Wet and scorching and perfect. Then Virgil slotted their mouths _just right_ , lips immingling, massaging viciously. Something thick and sopping curled past Roman's teeth— his— _fuck, oh fuck._ That was Virgil's _tongue._ Roman moaned, low and unrestrained, kissing back fervently, his maw wide and beseeching.

 

Virgil held him close, their bodies embraced so intensely Roman thought they were going to meld together. If only their clothes weren't in the way. (He had never hated his clothes more in his life.)

 

Virgil must have been thinking the same thing, his hands slipping underneath Roman's shirt and making him shiver, he caressed his skin in a way that could only be described as admiration. His touch was hesitant despite his rough kisses. Palming at his flesh gently, rubbing his waist methodically while his other hand explored: fingers moving with every curve of Roman's body, the small divots of his vertebrae, the meat between his shoulder blades, pausing on any small mole or unindent to trace it with his thumb.

 

It was languid and tender. Shivers wracked through his body. Roman had never felt more adored.

 

He assumed this advance could be taken as an invitation, itching to return the affection and touch Virgil back. Roman snaked his hand down and under Virgil's shirt, fingers only grazing warm, smooth skin before one of Virgil's hands ripped away from Roman's back, grabbing him by the wrist and preventing him from venturing further.

 

Roman pulled back, peering down at trepidatious, gray eyes. Self doubt and nervousness was evident in Virgil's expression. His hold on Roman's wrist shook, it didn't hurt any (he didn't think Virgil had the capacity to purposefully hurt him), it only made him yearn more.

 

"Please." Roman breathed, eyes hooded.

 

Virgil eyed him, searching. Roman held his gaze, keeping his expression open and vulnerable, Virgil deserved as much. His grip loosened slowly, Roman waiting patiently before his restraint fell away entirely, reaching up to cradle Roman's neck, bringing him down to recapture him in a kiss.

 

Exploring Virgil's body was an experience Roman wanted to save forever. Virgil was soft and lean and _so_ warm. His touch traveled higher, barely brushing his pecs before he was interrupted by a piercing ringing.

 

Virgil pulled away, an audible, sloppy, wet smack resounding.

 

"That was the bell."

 

Roman sighed, long and drawn out, "Yeah."

 

 

 


	15. Mutilated Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I lick my brain in silence  
> Rather squeeze my head instead  
> Midget man provoking violence  
> Listen not to what I said
> 
> "I said please calm it down  
> Everything is turning brown
> 
> "Mutilated lips give a kiss on the wrist  
> Of the worm like tips of tentacles expanding  
> In my mind, I'm fine, accepting only fresh brine  
> You can get another drop of this, yeah you wish"

* * *

 

 

Glancing at the clock every few seconds wasn't ideal— but it was the only alternative to leering down at Roman's bulge. No matter how bad he wanted to. Hiding in the library corridor, waiting for their hard-ons to cool down was Roman's idea. And a good one at that— showing up to American History with a boner was not something Virgil was too interested in.

 

It also gave them time to make themselves look (at least a little) presentable. But as much as they smoothed down their tousled hair, running their fingers through each other's fringes until normal— concealing their kiss bitten, swollen lips wasn't feasible.

 

"Is it bad?" Virgil asked, watching the clock— not trusting himself to look at the other.

 

"Mmm. . ." Roman started before breaking off into a laugh, shaking his head, "Yeah, not gonna lie: it's pretty bad."

 

Virgil scoffed, blushing with a frown, "Like yours are any better." he said, snapping his eyes from the clock, "It looks like you have a giant hickey on your mouth."

 

Roman grinned and Virgil's stomach did a somersault, "And who should I thank for that?"

 

Virgil took a moment to peer around the library's doors, out into the hallway. Students littered the hall in small groups, milling about; not paying no mind to the two that were stowed in the library’s corridor. They were still safe, no one was seeking them out.

 

He turned back to Roman, letting himself smile. “Me.” he declared, giddy.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Roman teased, nose to nose with him.

 

Satisfaction swelled up in Virgil's chest at the sight of Roman's red cheeks and tumefied lips. It was no doubt an aphrodisiac for him.

 

Virgil placed his shaking hands on Roman’s hips, putting aside his nerves to the best of his abilities. Heart going like a hummingbird, face the color of a strawberry, and mouth sore— he nodded.

 

Mischievous, green eyes twinkled back at him. Playfully, Roman went on, “So I should be thanking you, yes?”

 

“Yes.” he heard himself saying, leaning in closer; the tips of their noses brushing so lightly it tickled.

 

“The late bell will be ringing soon.” Roman simpered, hand coming up to cradle Virgil’s jaw.

 

Virgil swallowed, shooting a glance to the clock before looking back at Roman. “We have time.”

 

“What? Four minutes?”

 

“Give or take.” he shrugged, antsy for a refresher on how Roman's mouth tasted.

 

“Better make this quick, then.”

 

 _Then shut the fuck up._ Virgil almost said (not with intended malice, or course), instead he surged forward, capturing Roman’s lips in a bout of savoury kisses.

 

Thumbing Virgil’s cheek, Roman hummed appreciatively. They pulled back after a few more soft smacks, content and reeling.

 

Roman sighed, still languorously petting his face. Not that he was complaining, it was just a little overwhelming, was all.

 

“You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that.” Roman said (and Virgil could infer he meant what had just happened earlier, too).

 

“I have some idea.” Virgil mumbled, ducking his head down.

 

How many nights Virgil had ingloriously gotten off to Roman Prince was unfathomable.

 

It was mind-boggling that Roman had been in the same spot as him. That Roman had touched himself with Virgil in mind. Wanting him, lusting for him. The image couldn't be shaken from his head: Roman in bed— completely void of clothes. Roman stroking himself with a lubed hand— maybe fingering himself, too. Moaning, whining, wanting _Virgil_ there with him.

 

God, Virgil could still feel Roman's clothed, hard cock pressed into his side, and the wet numbing sensation of Roman's tongue against his.

 

Virgil shuddered, he was supposed to be _getting rid of_ his erection.

 

Thumb and forefinger held Virgil's chin gently, tilting his head up from staring at the ground.

 

Roman's eyes were glazed and lidded, his pupils wide and peering into Virgil's very being.

 

“You're gonna have to tell me about that later.” Roman said in a smoky voice, kissing the corner of Virgil's mouth— tongue darting out soon after, licking a line through the seam of his lips.

 

“Uhm.” Virgil squeaked, taking deep breaths through his nose to calm down, “. . .Okay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Whistling to himself, Remy shook his can of spray paint. He eyed the wall critically, a brick canvas ready for the taking.

 

He brought the can up— but before he could press on the nozzle a gruff voice piped up, "What are you doing?"

 

Remy turned his head, his sunglasses sliding down his nose, "What's up, O'Brien?" he asked rhetorically, "I'm putting somethin' up." he said, holding up his can of paint, "I'm thinking—" he made a dramatic gesture to his canvas— " _Down with Sanders' High's tyranny._ "

 

"You're not putting anything up." O'Brien griped, "You're not supposed to be here." he grabbed Remy's arm, forcing him away from the wall.

 

"Hey, hey!" Remy yelled, pulling away and straightening his leather jacket, "O'Brien, you're getting so touchy."

 

"You’re not supposed to be here." O'Brien repeated, shoving Remy to the cold, hard ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Virgil felt stiff as he walked (and he was sure he was doing that wrong). He flattened his shirt down for the umpteenth time, trying to make sure it wasn't too obviously creased.

 

"Calm down, worry wart," Roman jibed, nudging his shoulder, "Just pretend nothing happened, then no one will notice."

 

 _Yeah, no one will notice._ Virgil rolled his eyes. No one would notice that Roman Prince: charismatic, handsome, popular, etc. was walking about the courtyard with some angsty loner— the both of them with wrinkled shirts and—

 

Virgil abruptly stopped in his tracks, Roman quick to follow his example.

 

"What is it?" Roman asked, following Virgil's line of sight.

 

" _The Truth Is A Virus._ " Roman read off the wall, the words in bright purple on the brick wall, "This is deep," Roman grinned, wishing he had a camera, "your message is out there."

 

Virgil didn't look so enthused, "Oh, God." he muttered, "Jesus, this whole thing is making me ill."

 

Roman turned to him, confusion evident on his face, "Virgil, what's with you?"

 

"Look, Roman," Virgil said, glancing around at the other students that walked by, this was all a mistake." he said, and Roman could feel his stomach drop.

 

Roman laughed uneasily, hoping it was only a tasteless joke, "What are you talking about?"

 

"I'm not. . ." Virgil sighed, looking unsure of himself, "I'm not going on anymore," he met Roman's eyes, an effort to appear sure of himself, "It's over. This is too much, I can't do this."

 

"But you're so close." Roman urged.

 

Virgil frowned, "Close to what?"

 

"To getting your message across." he said.

 

Virgil huffed, "This is my life you're screwing around with here, you know."

 

Roman shook his head, "Not anymore it isn't," he pointed a finger at Virgil, "this is everyone's life, Virgil, you can't leave it like this. People are confused."

 

"So am I!" Virgil retorted, hand on his chest.

 

"Virgil!"

 

"This is all fucked up," Virgil mumbled, putting space between him and Roman, "it's crazy!"

 

Roman shook his head, "No, no," he took a step toward Virgil, not allowing the distance, "No, the world is fucked up just like you said. Don't you see that you're the voice," he implored, desperate, "you're the voice we're all waiting for!"

 

Virgil wasn't convinced, his arms crossed as he took a sudden interest in the rolled cuffs of his jeans.

 

Roman came closer, trying to get Virgil to look at him (the action giving him an odd sense of dejavu), "Virgil," he started, voice soft, "I'm here for you, you know."

 

Virgil looked up, biting his lip, silently encouraging Roman to continue.

 

"You're so amazing." he went on, "And have such amazing points and ideas— you're opening everyone's eyes to what's been going on around here. you've only been here this year— and you were able to see all the fucked up shit that's been going on. We need you. _They_ need you!"

 

He took Virgil's hand, giving it a firm squeeze. "If you won't do it for me, then do it for them. Everyone here needs you."

 

Roman smiled gently, ignoring his impulse to brush Virgil's bangs out of his face. There were people around, and they were already pushing it with the hand holding.

 

"I'm with you, Virgil." he said, almost giving in and kissing Virgil. The soft and raw look Virgil had, it was something Roman wanted to photograph and admire forever. "I'll be there for you, I promise."

 

"I. . ." Virgil cleared his throat, "Thank you. That. . ."

 

"Wait." Roman said, looking over Virgil's shoulder.

 

Virgil turned around, confused, "What?"

 

"That's Bobby Afton." he said, face unreadable.

 

Virgil frowned, eyeing said classmate, "Yeah?"

 

Roman dropped Virgil's hand, giving him an apologetic look, "Excuse me for a moment, Virgil."

 

Virgil stood rooted in place as he watched Roman walk up to Bobby Afton in fast strides.

 

"Hi!" Roman called cheerfully, grabbing Bobby's attention. He kept speaking, giving Bobby no time to respond. "I'm Roman— Valerie's friend."

 

With that, Roman reeled his arm back— then surged forward, fist colliding with Bobby Afton's nose— a sickening crunch sounding in the courtyard, thick spurts of crimson landing on the concrete ground and Roman's knuckles.

 

Virgil didn't move, gawking as he watched the fight break out. The two swung at each other with full aggression— students rushed over, circling the fight while gossiping amongst themselves.

 

Teachers ran over as soon as they saw the commotion, shoving their way through the crowd and prying Bobby Afton and Roman away from each other.

 

"What the fuck, Prince?" Bobby shouted, teeth stained red, nose dripping as he struggled against the teachers' grip.

 

"You don't deserve Valerie!" Roman yelled back, "And her life is fucked because of you!"

 

"It takes two to tango, dumb ass!" Bobby spat, blood and saliva flying from his mouth.

 

"Enough, you two." a teacher demanded, the two of them getting yanked inside, presumably to the office.

 

Virgil found his footing, taking a step before halting at the sound of the bell. His gossiping peers filtered back inside, lunch officially over and class already starting. Virgil's hands flew to his pockets, rummaging past gum wrappers and his house key— but no hall pass. _Damn it._ He wanted to slap himself; of course he would leave them at home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Williams took a deep breath, grounding herself before she stepped into the principal's office.

 

The room was dark, the only light shining through the cracks between the thick curtains. The small amount of sunlight illuminated hundreds of tiny dust particles, flitting across the office in a slow, uncoordinated dance.

 

Drãgao didn't look up from her paperwork, either not noticing the english teacher, or ignoring her presence.

 

Williams swallowed roughly, straightening her back before she began to speak, "What's wrong with you?" she asserted.

 

Drãgao leered up from her desk.

 

"I found O'Brien beating a student— he was beating a student!" she raised her voice, "What's wrong with this school?"

 

Drãgao's eye twitched. She licked her lips, sitting up in her seat and folding her hands over her desk. "Control yourself." Drãgao said evenly.

 

"I will not." Williams almost sneered, "I want answers."

 

Drãgao's lip curled, continuing, "Or suffer the consequences."

 

Williams shook her head, "What are you talking about?"

 

Drãgao smiled her red painted lips parting, teeth on full display, "I'm talking about your dismissal."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the day went by sluggardly. Roman was nowhere to be seen— which was expected, considering he had broken Bobby Afton's nose in an unanticipated fit of rage. ( _That_ was _pretty hot._ Virgil conceded to himself.) It wasn't hard piecing together why Roman had done it, and Virgil hated how admirable the act was— despite being reckless and irrational. 

 

With no hall pass, Virgil was confined to his classes, unable to skip out and look for Roman. (He could skip without a pass, sure. But having one brought him ease and smoothed his anxieties' edges a tad.) Each break between class, Virgil would slowly walk by the office, peering in with hopes he'd spot Roman; no luck.

 

It was when school let out, Virgil left his Contemporary Math class on edge. Typically Virgil would keep his head low and avoid eye contact; but at that moment he was shooting looks everywhere, trying to pick out the dork with fluffy, chestnut hair and a denim jacket.

 

Right when he was going to give up and go home, he spotted him— spotted Roman, through one of the glass doors, leaning against a pillar right outside, his back to the school.

 

Virgil opened the door, it popping as he did so.

 

"Roman?" he asked quietly, coming up beside him.

 

Roman turned to him, his right cheek starting to bruise and his lip scabbed. Somehow Virgil knew that wasn't why he looked so defeated— that didn't change the fact Virgil wanted to kiss his bruises away. He wanted to press feather light kisses to his purpling cheek. He wanted to gently take Roman's busted lip into his mouth and suckle a kiss to it.

 

"Hi, Virge."

 

Virgil's fingers twitched at the nickname, but he ignored it, "Roman, I've been looking all over for you." he stated, "What the Hell happened?"

 

Roman didn't say anything at first, silently looking at Virgil for a while, before nodding his head to the lower parking lot, "Look," he said, and Virgil did.

 

Three white vans sat at the bottom of the hill, unattended at the parking lot that was used for food deliveries.

 

"F.C.C." Roman said, "you know what that means?"

 

Virgil sucked in a breath, "Yeah," he grimaced, "it means Federal Communication Commission. They can drive around and triangulate wherever the hell a radio signal's coming from." he crossed his arms and mumbled, "I know exactly what it means."

 

"Yeah," Roman said, "so fuck it, right? I mean, it's over." he huffed, "Frankly, I don't even give a shit."

 

Virgil's brows furrowed, "What the Hell is wrong?"

 

Roman leaned back against the pillar, running a hand over his face, "I just got expelled."

 

Virgil gaped, "What the Hell are you talking about?"

 

"Punching Bobby Afton." Roman sighed, "They weren't too thrilled about that."

 

"That's it?" Virgil questioned, "They can't kick you out just for that."

 

"I've been cutting lessons." Roman added.

 

"And?"

 

"And I'm failing Math."

 

Virgil bit his lip, "Well, that just deserves a suspension, right?"

 

"Well," Roman drawled, "then I said 'fuck you' to Drãgao. You should have seen her face, she was so happy she said 'thank you'."

 

Virgil pushed his bangs back, shaking his head, "This school fucking sucks. Jesus Christ!"

 

"This is why I don't even care anymore." Roman grabbed his hand, holding it between both of his, "Look, just leave it alone. There's nothing you can do about it."

 

Virgil opened his mouth— to say what— he didn't really know. It was all so fucked. The school, the staff, the kids who went to it. They were all kinds of fucked up.

 

He knew he had to be some sort of backing for Roman, to try and let him know things would be okay. But he couldn't think of anything that would be of any use; and he didn't have to, the school's side door popping open again, a familiar voice calling, "Macintosh!"

 

Mrs. Williams stepped outside, her small heels clicking against the sidewalk, "Macintosh, wait a minute. I just wanted to say goodbye and good luck."

 

Virgil glanced at Roman before giving her a puzzled look, "Why?"

 

Williams smiled sadly, "I was fired, I made a mistake. I thought I could change things," she shrugged, "I forgot you don't rock the boat."

 

Virgil's father came to mind, the saying flowing off his tongue, "Yeah," he said, "especially when you're in it." it left a bad taste in his mouth.

 

"Hey," Williams chimed, a hand on his shoulder, "chin up."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the quick chapter, i know it's a mess


	16. Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road  
> Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go  
> So make the best of this test and don't ask why  
> It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time"

* * *

 

 

The Elementary and Secondary Education Act was passed by the 89th United States Congress in 1965. This was to distribute funding to schools and school districts with a high percentage of students from low-income families. This law became a sapling that would grow and branch out into new and (no less) important laws in the near future.

 

With the Elementary and Secondary Education Act came the Bilingual Education Act; then the  Equal Educational Opportunities Act of 1974— meant to put an end to discrimination against faculty, staff, and students (including racial segregation of students), and required school districts to take action to overcome barriers to students' equal participation.

 

Virgil just didn't realize the correct way of overcoming the barriers of student participation was to kick them the fuck out. How silly of him to think helping— legitimately helping students, was the right course of action.

 

 _Oh, wait, that's not right._ Virgil thought with a roll of his eyes, _Drãgao's just a psychopathic bitch._

 

He couldn't wrap his head around how absolutely god awful Drãgao was. Her abuse in power was abominable— down right flagitious— _fucking disgusting._

 

Virgil was practically seething as he attempted to walk home. His hands balled into fists, his dull nails digging into his palms.

 

Roman was expelled. He was expelled from Sanders High and it was all thanks to Drãgao. Of course, Roman shouldn't have punched Bobby Afton, or cut class as much as he did— and yeah, so he was failing math. Okay, whatever, but that didn't exactly warrant expulsion.

 

So many students kicked out, thrown to the curb— all for such humdrum contrivances. Things that would typically get a few weeks grounding, or loss of car privileges (until further notice), from parents.

 

Drãgao was ruling the school with an iron fist. To Hell with warnings, referrals, detentions, suspensions— you fuck up, you're getting the fuck out. The long manicured nail of Drãgao's forefinger jabbed in the direction of the school's front gates. Bye, sayonara, arrivederci, _good riddance._

 

He wasn't having it. Virgil wasn't fucking having it. Drãgao was off her fucking rocker— bat shit crazy. Virgil was through with Sanders Side High and its corrupted faculty. He was done with students dropping like flies, with kids being afraid of breathing wrong, in fear of expulsion.

 

His head hung as he silently fumed, glaring down at the cracked sidewalk and chewed gum wads that he walked past.

 

Roman was right. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Roman was right: Craven Moorehead was responsible for the school's exposure, it was on him to finish what he started— even if it was all unintentional. Even if Virgil only wanted to use the short wave radio as something akin to an auditory diary.

 

Even though the main reason he stayed on when things kicked off was for the thrill. The buzz and adrenaline it gave him that made his blood quiver and body shake in excitement. The jolt of epinephrine and— and the _high_ that he got. From the dumb political tangents he went off on, to the sleezy music he played and shamelessly danced around his bedroom to.

 

It was for fun. For the thrill. Then he started making points— started peeling back his peers eyelids with a jokingly-sultry yell, waving to the chaos that was happening under their noses, and saying, "Hey, that's real fucked up, huh?" he would laugh and shake his head, urge his peers closer to the mess, "You're just gonna let that keep happening? Huh? Are you gonna sit back and do nothing? What? Are you scared? Are you chicken? A baby back bitch?"

 

Then they would talk back, defiant and appalled at the accusation.

 

And Craven Moorehead would just take a hit off his joint, combat boots kicked back on the flat of his desk. He'd shrug, "Then why aren't you doing anything?" he'd question— he would challenge.

 

Then his peers would do what all short minded, bad impulsed individuals would do: take it to heart. They sharpened their pitchforks and lit their torches— tried to fight back, albeit in their own wild and bizarre ways— only to be tossed right back out, a scowl on Drãgao's tightly wound face.

 

Virgil shook his head and flexed his fingers, his joints aching to do _something._

 

Things were getting too serious— were already too heavy, with F.C.C. getting dragged into mix, which was going to make things much more difficult than it needed to be. It wasn't as simple as rigging his neighbors' sonar, again. As much as Virgil didn't want to acknowledge it: they were smarter. They were more prepared in the field than he was.

 

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Virgil slowed his pace to a stop. He stood in place at the bottom of his driveway, going over his night's plans pensively.

 

Hiding in his basement like a sitting duck wasn't ideal, but he didn't really have any other choice. He didn't have anywhere else to go— not that it mattered, anywhere would just be another blatant target. If only he could. . .

 

Glinting in the afternoon light, shiny from a fresh wax. Just sitting there in his family's open garage like a god send.

 

A plan immediately began formulating in Virgil's mind.

 

The corners of his lips quirked up, and before he knew it he was grinning like a mad man.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Howard cut to the chase, not in the mood to dance around the problem, "Diana," he said, running a hand through his hair, "what the Hell is going on here?"

 

The principal shrugged indifferently, "It's the troublemakers' fault," her voice was even despite the accusation, "you can't run a top school with troublemakers in the mix."

 

Howard nodded, mulling it over. "Okay," he gestured for her to go on, "so what exactly falls under 'troublemaker'?"

 

She was quick to elaborate, "Someone who has no interest in education." she said.

 

Mr. Macintosh chuckled, shaking his head, "Oh c'mon," seeing that Drãgao wasn't joining him in his laughter he shook his head in disbelief, "You can't be serious; that includes every teenager I know."

 

Drãgao rolled her eyes, "Can't you understand that nothing is more important than a good education?"

 

Howard crossed his arms, "Except for the basic right to it." he stated.

 

Drãgao clicked her tongue, sliding a folder across the table, "The point is," she said, motioning for her boss to read the papers inside, "I have the highest S.A.T. scores in the state."

 

"Yeah," he drawled, analyzing the documents, "but how?" he questioned.

 

Drãgao smiled, curt and formal, "I stand by my record."

 

Howard looked like he was about to say something more, but Drãgao moved on, "Anyway," she said, standing up and out of her chair, "If you remember, we are both needed in the sheriff's station tonight."

 

Mr. Macintosh sighed, "Yes, I know." he shot her a pointed look, "But we're continuing this discussion later."

 

Drãgao waved him off, stepping out of the office in confident strides, "Of course, commissioner."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"—and with us today we have Mr. Campbell, from the F.C.C."_ Chep River stated cheerfully.

 

Campbell could be heard leaning toward his mic, before giving a quick _"Good evening."_

 

 _"How does Washington intend to deal with this situation?"_ Chep River pressed, _"The one regarding our elusive DJ: 'Craven Moorehead'?"_

 

 _"We at the F.C.C. feel that democracy is about protecting the rights of the ordinary citizen."_ Campbell said, _"Unregulated radio would result in programming of the lowest common denominator, the rule of the mob. This is vandalism, not free expression."_

 

Virgil was sure the guy was fun at parties.

 

 _"That's a very strong view of things, Campbell."_ River said, then went on, _"It is also apparent that people believe he is a student at our Sanders Side High; do you have any comment on that?"_

 

 _"I do, actually."_ Campbell said, much to Virgil's displeasure, _"It's sad how this day's generation takes things for granted. We give these kids free education, and our full support for their future—"_

 

"Yeah, futures that you all pick for us," Virgil mumbled to himself, taking a sip of his Pepsi.

 

Full support. What a rip.

 

Virgil couldn't stand the dumbasses that stood by people like Campbell and Drãgao. They were all so blind by their own pompous ignorance. Because there was no way, no possible way any of them could be wrong. It was just unthinkable. Either they were right, or nothing had ever happened for them to be wrong. It was as simple as that, really.

 

Full support. Virgil scoffed. Had Valerie gotten any support when she skipped her period? Did Mr. Serious get any support when he felt his life crashing down around him? The answer was yes, of course. Because the mature grown ups said so. Case closed: it was the troubled youth's fault.

 

Virgil snorted, chair swiveling so he could face the sliding glass door, Campbell droning on in the background.

 

It was too dark to see his yard, but he knew what was out there— ready to finish this.

 

Campbell and Chep River continued to converse with each other, white noise as Virgil went over his plan. He went down the checklist in his mind, making sure everything was in order. Which it was.

 

The idea was extemporaneous— especially for someone as anxious as him.

 

He took another sip of his Pepsi, licking his lips as he tried to control the bouncing of his leg. Everything was fine— he was fine.

 

But the uncertainty lingered. Disquietude eating away at his brilliant plan. He did his best to quell it, reminding himself it needed to be done, this was on him.

 

He reminded himself of everyone that was depending on him— everyone who needed him. And when that got too stressful, he thought about Roman. He thought about his bright eyes, his fluffy hair, the beauty mark below his eye, his soft lips and playful banter. His wise words and the passion he held with them.

 

His bravery.

 

Virgil sighed through his nose, spinning around in his wheeled chair without purpose.

 

The plan was fine, really.

 

It was as good as it was going to get, he conceded, turning back to his radio. All he had to do was wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The clearing was packed, everyone who was anyone was there. Rows and rows of cars parked half hazardously were accompanied by coolers full of ice and parents' stolen booze.

 

Everyone chatted idly, taking sips of their beer while balancing picket signs. They all came in support, their radios already tuned in, their volume amped up. Someone brought giant surround sound speakers in the bed of their truck, prepared to blare their hero's words of wisdom.

 

"You know," Remy drawled, swirling his solo cup of beer idly, "Craven Moorehead and I are pretty tight. Like two peas in a pod. I was listening the first night he was on, you know."

 

"Really?" a girl he was entertaining asked, Brittney maybe.

 

"You betcha'." he said, then took a gulp of his cheap alcohol, "Way back."

 

The group of classmates that sat around him stared at him in awe, fully in raptured.

 

"Did Chep River have anything to say when the cameras turned off?" someone asked.

 

"Nah," Remy waved his hand, "You know how guys like him are. He was all 'thanks kid, blah blah blah' and he was off. Talkin' to his camera jockey about going to see the school commissioner or something."

 

"I wish they'd all piss off," Nicole Zorra snorted before throwing her head back and finishing off her mom's bottle of peppermint schnapps.

 

The little circle all nodded and grunted their agreements.

 

"But, hey." Remy said with a shrug, "That's why we're here, right? Man, I bet Craven is itching in his seat."

 

 


	17. Truly Madly Deeply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to stand with you on a mountain.  
> I want to bathe with you in the sea.  
> I want to lay like this forever.  
> Until the sky falls down on me"

* * *

 

 

The basement's glass door slid open with a flourish, "Virgil!"

 

Virgil snapped his head up to the door, "Hi." he managed to say, setting his can of soda onto his desk, reaching over to turn off his radio.

 

"Hi." Roman breathed in turn, remaining in the doorway, hands clasped and appearing more than a little awkward. 

 

From his seat, Virgil looked over his face critically. The bruises Roman was sporting shone in the basement’s christmas lights, yellow, green, and purple.

 

Virgil swiveled his chair to face him better, concern evident on his face, "Are you okay?" he quired.

 

Roman nodded, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, "Yeah," he said, "fine, great, never been better."

 

"Are you sure?" 

 

Roman's shoulders slumped. He shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. "Kinda? I just. . .wanted to apologize."

 

Virgil tilted his head to the side, his hair unintentionally falling in front of his eye, "For what?"

 

Sighing through his nose, Roman went on, "For. . .everything, I guess. I'm sorry for ditching you to punch Bobby Afton— even if he did deserve it." he muttered the last part, making Virgil snort, "And I'm sorry for. . ." he waved his hand in the air, as if he could grasp what he wanted to say, "for being so. . .pushy."

 

"Roman," Virgil said, then stopped.

 

"I shouldn't have been so. . .uh, persistent. I told you to do things— I pressured you, then got upset when you got uncomfortable." he sighed, "And I'm sorry. If you don't wanna go on tonight, I get it. It _is_ your life. And you didn't have to share your thoughts with anyone— but you did, and that just made me. . ." he cleared his throat, a small blush coloring his bruised face, "Basically, do what you want— wait, no, that sounds bitchy. Just—"

 

"Roman." Virgil huffed with a grin. He bit his lip, his chest and shoulders rose and fell with repressed chuckles, "Thank you. That. . .means a lot coming from you, really. But. . .I think I should be _thanking_ you for being so pushy. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have stayed on— and I'm glad I did." he smiled bashfully, "You're, uhm. Well, you've kinda been a big inspiration. And sort of. . .my muse."

 

Roman's arms were crossed, one hand covering his mouth in an attempt to hide his red face and large grin.

 

Virgil swallowed, pushing down nerves and wiping his sweaty palms off on his jeans. He pushed himself up, taking a step towards the other.

 

"So," Virgil added, "We— we started something here." he stammered, fiddling with his flannel's cuffs.

 

Roman's embarrassment left him in an instant, his hand dropping to show his smirk, “ _We_?” he parroted, a brow raised.

 

“Alright, _I_ started.” Virgil lamented. “But now I need your help to finish it.” he shuffled where he stood, his ears going hot, “Roman,” he said, “I need you.”

 

Roman threw his hands up, just short from jumping up and down, "Well, it's about time!"

 

"Look, you’re right. I’m responsible for this shit, I have a job to do. And I— I wanna do it with you."

 

"You had me at 'you're right'."

 

Virgil let out a quick breath of relief, relaxing, “I've got something to show you.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Roman pressed, taking ahold of Virgil's arm and yanking him to be pressed flush against him, “you don't think we’re moving too fast?” he asked in a hushed tone.

 

Virgil blanched, "Wha—? No! no,” he shook his head, fumbling as he stepped around Roman and out the door, “It's— it’s outside.” he pointed over his shoulder.

 

Roman tailed behind him acquiescently, sliding the basement's door shut on their way out. He followed curiously, watching over Virgil's shoulder as he led him out into the yard. As they grew closer to their destination, he was able to make out a large shape, hidden in the night's darkness and covered by a black tarp.

 

"Wha—" he began quietly and stopped himself, turning to Virgil in excitement.

 

Virgil stepped closer to the lump, reaching out and clenching his fist into the plastic lined cloth, the fabric bunching up in his clutch and crunching loudly in the hushed night, "Okay," with a harsh tug Virgil pulled the tarp off, letting it fall on the grass in a heap.

 

Roman's jaw fell. He quickly came closer to get a good look at Virgil's work, "Oh, wow."

 

A 1988 Jeep Wrangler sat parked in place of the once mysterious mass. It's top had been removed, but the doors left on. As he peered in he could see the bulky short wave set sitting in the passenger seat. The car's radio panel had been pried off, wires hooking the system to the Jeep. And a mic rested neatly on the console.

 

"It's my Mom’s jeep," Virgil quickly supplied, "she kind of loaned it to me."

 

Roman gestured to the equipment that was secured inside, "Who did all of this?"

 

"Me and Radio Shack." Virgil shrugged.

 

He scuffed his boot against the ground, hands in his pockets. He knew what he wanted to say— what needed to be said. But his racing pulse and shaking limbs had to make things so strenuous. Roman himself didn't make things any easier, either. The way he looked at the set up: with such wonder and excitement, his eyes alight. He stopped only to shoot a grin over to Virgil, and _fuck._ Virgil had it bad.

 

"I'm terrified, Roman." he said, getting his attention, "I'm. . .so fucking scared. So much shit is happening— Drãgao's become a fucking tyrant, my parents are breathing down my neck, and— and the shit with Valerie and Mr. Serious. . ." he trailed off.

 

A hand on his shoulder brought him back. He took a deep breath before going on, "Look," he said, "I. . .I can't do this without you." he shakily took Roman's hand in his as he stumbled over his words, "We— we can do this. . .like you said."

 

Virgil spared a glance at Roman, having to look away at the look of fondness that was being targeted at him.

 

"And— and once it blows over," he went on, face hot and burning, "we can come back to my place; smoke a bowl and watch _The Black Cauldron._ "

 

Roman leaned in close, placing a kiss on Virgil's cheek before whispering, "God, you're perfect, you know that?"

 

Virgil's cheek burned from the chaste peck. His lips quirked up, "Is that a yes?"

 

"Maybe." Roman hummed, another kiss, this time pressed to Virgil's jaw, "On one condition."

 

Virgil shuddered. He licked his lips, bracing himself, ". . .What?" he asked lowly, already aware of what was being asked of him. 

 

Roman smiled against skin, placing pecks down Virgil's neck. Puckishly, he told him, "Kiss me." 

 

A shiver ran down Virgil's spine. He knew the request was coming, but it still got him all excitable and mushy feeling. The compelling urge to give and take and never let go. To hand himself over to Roman to do whatever he seemed fit. To toss aside his worries and doubts and to just _be._

 

So he did; tilting his head to the side, Virgil interrupted the kisses that were being trailed up his jaw, meeting Roman's lips covetously. Roman moaned, pushing back just as fiercely, hands coming up to tangle in Virgil's hair. His dull nails scraped against the other's scalp, pulling him closer and closer, impossibly so. 

 

Their tongues met in the middle, clashing and prodding at one another vehemently. Roman whining when Virgil drawled his tongue into his mouth, clamping around it and sucking roughly.

 

They only pulled back for short breaks, needing more than just each other's hot and damp breaths. But even then they were holding onto one another greedily, pressing wet kisses to their necks, jaws, cheeks, wherever they could reach— while taking sharp, labored breaths.

 

Hands wandered without their say, slipping under their shirts, refreshing their memories despite last touching only earlier that day.

 

Virgil's breath hitched, Roman's thigh purposefully grinding up against his growing arousal. 

 

"Wait," Virgil breathed, pulling back only to be dragged back, "No, wait. Hold on." 

 

Reluctantly, Roman loosened his hold. Virgil took a stumbling step back. 

 

"What's wrong?" Roman rasped, mouth parted as he gasped.

 

"Just," he ran a shaky hand through his hair, "Give me a sec."

 

He tripped over his feet as he foundered for the jeep's passenger door. He poked his head inside, sighing in relief and barely contained rapaciousness at the sight of the blinking _11:32_ on the radio's digital clock. 

 

"Okay." Virgil babbled, "Okay, okay, okay." he yanked open the back door, pausing and looking back at Roman, "Uhm." he gestured to the backseat, "If. . .is this alright? I mean— I just thought. . ."

 

Roman quirked a brow, smirking despite his face being bright red. "How romantic," he teased, sliding into the car.

 

Roman was quick to situate himself: lying back on the seat like it was made for him, arms folded under his head and legs bent— propped up and spread beseechingly. Virgil's grip on the door tightened as he willed his legs to not give out. His grin turned soft, looking at Virgil so sweetly, so honestly; a rosy blush painting his face as he bit his lip— giving his own nervousness away.

 

Virgil swallowed, eyeing the offering greedily. Hs had lost count of how many times he had imagined this happening (though never in his mother's Jeep). It was surreal— everything that happened in the past week had been so surreal. 

 

"Are you coming?" Roman asked, impatience that was intentional, its insincerity clear in the way Roman moved to to sit up, legs beginning to fall close, smile going uneasy.

 

Roman was nervous, too, and that knowledge gave Virgil a little more confidence, aiding him to move from his rooted spot.

 

"I thought you were gonna help with that." He countered, slipping into the vehicle and shutting the door behind him.

 

Roman chuckled, settling back down easily, "Get over here then." he yanked Virgil forward by his belt loops, laughing when Virgil toppled on top of him. 

 

Virgil sat up, a rebuttal sitting on his tongue, but he swallowed it. Roman was smiling at him so sweetly, so honestly that Virgil could only comply when Roman's fingers threaded back into Virgil's hair, pulling him down to seal their lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as Drãgao parked her car and turned off the ignition, she was opening the driver door and marching into Paradise Hill's precinct. Her head was held high and her shoulders were squared, looking like she would step on anyone who would be unlucky enough to walk her path. 

 

Howard sighed, opening the passenger door before clicking the lock button, then promptly shutting the door. He trudged his way to the building, Drãgao already inside.

 

But he wasn't so lucky in making such a speedy, uninterrupted entrance.

 

"Mr. Macintosh, it's good to see you." O'Brien smiled, waving him over.

 

Adversely, Howard inclined, taking a place near the building's wall, standing taughtly and more than a little nettled.

 

"Hello, O'Brien, you look well." he said easily, accustomed to engaging with people that rubbed him wrong.

 

The man beside him pulled out a pack of cigarettes, his own already lit and balanced between his cracked lips. He gestured the pack to the other in invitation.

 

Howard shook his head, a faux smile tugging his mouth uncomfortably, "No thanks, I don't smoke."

 

O'Brien nodded, shoving the pack into his pocket and taking a drag from his cigarette. He blew the smoke out in a puff, the dingy gray illuminated by the street lamps. "Fine night to bring a delinquent to justice; don't you think?"

 

The smoke curled and danced in the short breeze, twisting its way up into the dark, inky sky.

 

Howard fought the urge to scrunch up his nose, "A decent night to put an end to the mess that's been going on." he said tersely.

 

Nodding in a way that said _same difference_ O'Brien flicked the built up ashes onto the sidewalk. 

 

"I heard you apprehended a young man for vandalizing the school, earlier today."

 

O'Brien nodded again, a little more hesitant, "Yes," he said, licking his chapped lips and flicking his cigarette once more, "I caught him in the act. Let him off with a warning."

 

Howard hummed, eyeing the man beside him thoroughly. There were cracks in the walls O'Brien put up, and Howard could practically smell the lie like he could smell the smoke that flit through the air. 

 

"Your son goes to Sanders, right?" O'Brien smiled toothily, the crooked yellow shining in low light.

 

Howard's already present frown deepened, a crease forming on his forehead. The switch in topic was so abrupt, lacking anger finesse for a proper changeover. But it worked, Howard's fists clenched at his sides at the mention of his son.

 

"Yes, that's right." he said evenly, not allowing his voice to betray him.

 

O'Brien nodded as he took a deep drag, "I hear he's a very bright young man." he said, letting the gray cloud float out of his mouth on its own accord.

 

Howard's smile was strained, a thin mask, "Yes, that's right."

 

O'Brien didn't say anything right away, licking his lips and nodding as if he was in deep thought, "You don't think he's listening in tonight, do you?"

 

He bristled, his lip curling up on its own volition, "My son is at home doing homework." he spoke defensively, "And I don't appreciate you bringing him up like this."

 

"I meant no offense, sir." O'Brien deflected, the yellow teeth of his smile making an appearance again

 

"He is a smart and responsible young man." Howard went on, crossing his arms,  "I tell you, he's at home right now, studying."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spluttering and gagging, Virgil pulled off with a wet _pop._ Drool gathered in the corners of his mouth, running down the side of his face and pooling deftly on the Jeep's backseat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, taking in ragged breaths to refill his lungs.

 

The air was thick and wet, the smell heavy and salty, a weight that held them down on the seat— laying on their sides, their fronts melded firmly together in a secure hold. 

 

It was hot and humid (despite the Jeep's top being off), a dizzying embrace that numbed Virgil's brain— endorphins dancing around his skull, pulling him in a blissed trance.

 

Gentle fingers reached down to card themselves through his hair, tenderly pushing his curls away from his already sweaty forehead.

 

"You okay, Virge?" Roman queried, his teasing laced with genuine concern.

 

"Shut up." Virgil huffed, glad that from the way they were positioned Roman wasn't able to see just how red his face was.  

 

"You sure?" Roman asked breathily, hands gripping Virgil's thighs, his warm breath fanning over his cock, "We can stop if you want."

 

Instead of giving a rebuttal and calling Roman out on his blatant teasing (like he wanted to) he ducked his head forward, taking the head of Roman's cock back into his mouth. He laved at the head in thick presses of his tongue, holding the shaft in place with one hand while his other felt up Roman's thigh.

 

Roman groaned, his fingers curling in Virgil's hair and yanking the strands uncomfortably. He didn't complain, concentrating on his task at hand. Bobbing his head methodically, he took Roman in and out of his maw, swirling his tongue around his cock in a way he hoped was congenial. With the way Roman was moaning— Virgil could conclude that it was. 

 

Through his choked moans, Roman managed to get back to his previous ministrations. Virgil sucked a sharp breath through his nose, fighting back a hiss as Roman gave Virgil's length a firm, slow lick before pressing wet, open mouthed kisses to the expanse of Virgil's cock.

 

Crimson heat swelled and curled tight inside of Virgil— like his muscles and tendons had tightened. As if his insides grew taut enough that they turned into a red mush— built out of nerves and desire and every single fuzzy warm feeling Virgil had been so frightened of. 

 

Tucked in the tight seat of his mother's Jeep, parked in his home's backyard, the top off and the only curtain of privacy was the darkness of the night that shrouded them. 

 

Cricket chirps and the whir of cars driving down fifteen, just short in the distance, mingled with the groans, gasps and soft slurping that rang loud in Virgil's ears.

 

He knew they were moving fast— that they were jumping into things. Virgil really didn't know Roman, not enough, anyway. Not enough to be rushing an intimate relationship so quickly— to strip naked and give each other fellatio.

 

But Virgil couldn't find it in himself to care. Maybe it was the rush and adrenaline of the night to come. Maybe it was his muddled hormonal teenage brain. Maybe it was his touch starved insecurities that just _yearned_ for affection, and Roman just happened to have been willing. 

 

Virgil didn't care. 

 

He wasn't worried about how they'd feel in the morning, if they'd come to regret it. He didn't care about his morals or what his parents would think— partaking in oral sex with the supposed friend they were so happy he made. Sixtynining in the back seat of his mom's jeep. All before he would put on a persona and become the radio DJ they resented so much. 

 

He didn't _fucking_ care _._

 

It was just him and Roman— Roman and him. And it was a perfect, gorgeous obstruction from the riotous fate he had to succumb to. But he was ready. Ready for the chaos. For the idiots that preached for their opinions and morals to be stamped as facts. For the roaring bitterness of that witch, Drãgao. 

 

It was him and Roman— Roman and him— and he was ready. 

 

With a cry, Roman's hips shot forward, fingers twisting in Virgil's curls as thick spurts of salty cum flooded his mouth, invading his taste buds and sticking to the roof of his mouth, causing him to gag.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _Virgil_!" Roman called, just short of shouting.

 

He rocked his hips slowly, the sensitive, softening flesh of his prick sliding across Virgil's spit slick lips.

 

Virgil swallowed with only minimal difficulty before pulling off, twisting his body around to sit up. He reached for Roman, hand coming up into his hair— a short attempt to push his bangs back— only Roman nudged his hand away, whining and following Virgil with a pout.

 

"Virgil, wait. No, you didn't— you didn't," he went on before stopping himself abruptly, holding Virgil by his hips before taking him back into his mouth, moaning gluttonously around him. 

 

Throwing his head back, Virgil let out a long groan, keening up into Roman's acquiescent mouth. Globs of drool slid down his shaft in a larghetto pace, tickling the bits that Roman couldn't take fully (without gagging) and settling at the base.

 

The spit didn't stay in place for too long— Roman taking the rest of Virgil's cock that he couldn't quite reach into his fist— jerking Virgil off in quick flicks of his wrist.

 

His face was burning— he thought his flush was bad before— but now he could practically feel steam coming out of his ears, his face was so hot. 

 

Roman was blowing him with gusto, moaning and whining around Virgil's cock with enthusiasm. Propped up on his elbow, Virgil watched on— completely enthralled at the sight of Roman's head bouncing in his lap. He covered his mouth with one hand, ignominious sounds slipping past his fingers despite his best efforts.

 

The crimson heat swelled inside of Virgil's insides, his mind going foggy as he felt himself teetering on the edge of his orgasam. He bit his lip harshly, fighting back his impending climax as me tried to muster out a warning— then all sense lost when Roman stilled, the head of Virgil's prick resting flat on his tongue as Roman's eyes fluttered open— lidded and glazed, tears beading in his lashes; his brows pinched— gazing at Virgil with such torrid thirst that threw Virgil right over the edge. 

 

Virgil yowled, back arching and fingers digging into the firm seat below him, "Fuck, Roman— Jesus fucking Christ!" 

 

Roman spluttered, lips popping off of Virgil's glans wetly. Ropes of Virgil's semen painted Roman's chin and lips in white, an enkindling sight for Virgil to come back to once he caught his bearings. 

 

"Fuck, Roman. . ." was all Virgil could convene, laying back limply, panting forcibly while staring up at the vast sky above him, eyes unfocused and dazed. 

 

Roman hummed, sounding profoundly pleased with himself as he swiped Virgil's finish off his chin before sucking it off his digits. He wiped the rest of the mess off his face, disposing of it with sure licks across his fingers. He made sure to get the rest off of Virgil's now flaccid cock, too, causing him to wiggle uncomfortably at the overstimulation. When that was clean too (aside from Roman's sticky, wet saliva), he climbed up beside the other (with only a little difficulty) settling nose to nose with him.

 

He draped his arm over Virgil's middle, curling close to him in the tight space. 

 

"Was that good for my first time?" Roman said playfully, earning a flustered chuckle from Virgil.

 

"Yeah."

 

Roman raised a brow, "Just 'yeah'?"

 

Virgil shook his head, curls bouncing and sliding across the seat, "No. . .it was good— really good."

 

"Really good?" Roman parroted with a grin.

 

With a laugh, Virgil relented, "What do you want me to say?" he asked.

 

"Hmm," Roman pretended to wonder, "How about: the best— most _incredible_ you've ever had."

 

Then Virgil smiled, small and mellow, "But you're the only one that I've ever had."

 

"I. . ." Roman struggled, a loss for words that was soon overcome by a large, toothy grin, "Really?" he quired, bubbly with unrestrained giddiness.

 

"Yeah?" Virgil replied questioningly, "I thought it was pretty obvious."

 

It was Roman's turn to shake his head, "Uhh, no?" he giggled, then looked away, his smile going shy, "It's just you were always talking about these kinds of things on the show— and you always sounded so experienced, and all." he shrugged, "And you didn't always live here, so. . .you know. . .other people in other places. I don't know anything about where you lived before, or your past relationships and friends.

 

"And. . .the night after the PTA conference— back in the library— and just now. . .you're just. . .really good," he chuckled bashfully, "like, _really_ good. It felt like you really knew what you were doing."

 

Virgil stared at Roman incredulously, lips parted as he tried to make sense of the knowledge given to him. Experienced? _Virgil_? The notion would have been funny if it wasn't so embarrassing. 

 

Sure, he had some cognizance of how sex and pleasing a partner worked, and he wasn't completely lost when it came to kissing— sharing a few back in New York— but he never thought himself to have any proficiency in the act. 

 

And yeah, he talked himself up when playing the part of Craven, but that was still an act. He never _slept_ with anyone. The farthest he had ever gone was with Roman (and that wasn't even full on sex).

 

So, for Roman to claim Virgil was some experienced savant in intimacy. . .

 

"Oh." Virgil said lamely, unable to come up with something better to fill the silence with. 

 

"I mean— I wouldn't care if I wasn't your first." Roman added after seeing Virgil's struggle, "Well, no, I may be a little jealous, naturally— but—"

 

"Roman, I'm— I'm sure that you're my first." Virgil interrupted, laughing nervously and trying to relieve tension, "And it should really be me grilling you." he joked, "You're always so confident and sure of yourself. . .and stuff."

 

To think Roman saw Virgil as experienced, while he himself oozed in poise and radiated charm. His pretty features alone were enough to convince Virgil— but added with his bold attitude, bravery, his way with words (Virgil could go on forever), he had been sure, out of the two of them, Roman would be much more proficient than him. 

 

But Roman waved it all off with a laugh, pulling Virgil closer and nudging their foreheads together.

 

"Virge," he grinned, hand coming up to twist his fingers through Virgil's nest of hair, "I'm really glad we're each others' firsts."

 

Crimson heat cooled down to a simmering violet, hot but sated. Reposeful and somehow eminently tender. In the dark, their lamp being the moon and their nightlights the stars, Virgil was thankful Roman couldn't see how deep the red in his face was as he leaned in, mumbling, "Me too." before pressing their mouths together.

 

They smacked lazily, soft, wet sounds and even softer touches. 

 

It was him and Roman— Roman and him. In the backseat of his mom's Jeep as they counted down the minutes to midnight—

 

Virgil snapped away with a start, "Fuck," he swore, scrambling to look over the center console, "What time is it?"

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from my looking i am aware that a 1988 Jeep Wrangler with a backseat isn't a thing— but i don't care I wanted them to fuck in the car lmao. and that's also why the backseat is so small, since the jeep wranglers were made to be compact and easy to drive off road.
> 
> maybe Virgil's mom is a mechanic of something and is into car mods idk


	18. In The Meantime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And in the end we shall achieve in time  
> The thing they call divine  
> And all the stars will shine for me"

* * *

 

 

Dancing and drinking, all the students of Sanders Side high were gathered in the clearing— cars parked in hazardous lines, lawn chairs strewn out across the grass, coolers propped open, stocked full of ice, booze and frozen treats. 

 

Stereos were at the ready, turned up and set to 92 FM. Others played music as they waited, loud and salacious. A handful of teens were already tipsy, dancing in the cars' headlights provocatively, arms waving in the air and hips swaying from side to side.

 

Nose scrunched in distaste, Logan eased on the brakes, slowly weaving his way through the horrendous, makeshift parking lot. With negligible difficulty, he managed to secure a space within the board of other vehicles. With his mother's Toyota in park, engine cut and battery off, Logan turned to his friend in the passenger seat. 

 

"Patton," he said, pausing to push up his glasses, "are you positive this is how you would like to spend our night?" he gestured out the windshield; a girl was standing on the hood of a car nearby, clad in nothing but her shorts. "I understand the desideratesy in listening to tonight's program— but need I remind you, we could have done so in the privacy of our homes— away from such reprobates."

 

Valerie leaned into the conversation from the backseat, a smile on her face and a teasing tilt to her voice, "You've 'reminded' us the whole way here." 

 

Logan huffed, glancing back out the window to see the girl from earlier had discarded her shorts.

 

"Come on, Lo!" Patton urged, "It could be fun. And think of it as our way of showing support."

 

"If that's the case, then shouldn't Roman be accompanying us?" Logan questioned honestly.

 

Valerie's smile faltered, her shoulders slumping, "I called, but his mom said he wasn't home. . ." she sighed, slumping back into her seat, "I'm really worried about him."

 

Logan looked at her through the rearview mirror, "If you're referring to when he attacked Bobby Afton earlier today—"

 

"Logan." Patton warned, shooting him a look over the console.

 

"Well, yeah; of course I'm worried about that." she paused to nibble on her thumbnail, "But I just get this feeling there's something else he's not telling us."

 

Logan nodded in understanding, "Agreed. His preoccupation with Craven Moorehead _and_ Virgil Macintosh has been leaving him," he waved his hand in the air, "with his head in the clouds." he turned to Patton, "Did I say that right?"

 

Patton gave his own nod, "You're right— and yes you did." he added.

 

"Last time I talked to Roman, he went _on and on_ about how hot Virgil is." with a fond smile, Valerie shook her head, "I swear, he can't have it any worse."

 

Val erupted into a fit of giggles, Patton joining her while Logan remained stoic.

 

Patton's mirth was cut short; his eyes widened behind his glasses, mouth falling into an _oh._ He shot quick glances to his friends, suddenly antsy in his seat, "Wait. . .Roman has a crush on Virgil, right?" he said, twisting his body so he could face the both of them. 

 

"Yes, that is correct." Logan raised a brow, "You were there when we were teasing him about said feelings."

 

Patton went on feverishly, "Right! And Virgil is _new_ here—"

 

"Pat," Valerie interrupted, forehead creased, "where are you going with this?" 

 

Patton leaned forward, hands thrown up in his excitement, "Think about it! Virgil shows up a few weeks before Craven Moorehead goes on air— new to town and is always alone?" he pointed a finger at the two, "You know, I haven't seen that kiddo _once_ in the cafeteria."

 

Logan held his chin pensively, "Craven Moorehead did mention he eats alone." he said slowly.

 

"Exactly!" Patton blurted, just short of vibrating where he sat, "And— and Roman happens to have a crush on _both_ of them. He talks about Craven the same way he talks about Virgil! He's called them _both_ dreamy, smart, easy on the ears— and then some."

 

Valerie's gripped Logan's headrest, imploring Patton's words with astonished cognizance, "You're saying. . ." she licked her lips, eyes flicking across Patton's face, "you think _Virgil_ —"

 

"Okay, everybody!" a staticky screech echoed through the clearing. 

 

Remy stood on his Pacer's roof, megaphone raised to his mouth, "Hey! Everyone shut up!" he shouted before shooting a look at his watch, "Ten seconds 'til Craven Moorehead!"

 

The crowd cheered, jumping and scrambling into place to the nearest sound system.

 

"Ten," they all yelled in unison, "nine," they triple checked the volume settings, "eight," shoving and bickering over stolen seats, "seven," booze at the ready, "six," they squirmed in their places, "five," they held their breath, "four," lawn chairs creaked as peers leaned toward their stereos, "three," beer sloshed to and fro within the solo cups, "two," everyone was squealing, holding their friends by their arms and shaking one another, " _one_!" 

 

The crepitation of leaves rattled in the treeline a few ways away. A low buzz rang out, the speakers fizzing from high bass with no accompanying voice. Silence was stretched thin, a veil cloaking the students of Sanders Side. Someone coughed. The veil punctured, folks whispered and quizzed each other in confusion.

 

"Craaaven!" Remy whined, on his knees and praying to the altar that was his car radio, "C'mon, we're right here waiting for you!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Personally I hope we get to hear from him a little bit before they nab him,"_ Campbell from F.C.C. said from a different station, _"it will be interesting to see how hard he is then."_

 

Virgil straightened the wires that poked from the Jeep's open radio panel, positioned in the back seat, not bothering to fasten his seat belt (it was an unruly night, after all), "Hello, Dad," he said to no one, "we're going to jail."

 

Roman beamed from his place in the driver's seat, "Say hi to Mom." he joked before turning the keys. The car roared to life, headlights flickering on and radio's led lights blinking.

 

"Wait. You have driven a jeep before, right?" Virgil asked, too late in the question but voicing it anyway. (The thought of crashing his mother's Jeep made his skin crawl— but the thought was pushed away before it could fully form.)

 

Roman shrugged, ten and two, foot gently tapping the gas pedal before remembering they were still in park. "Can't be too hard." he said, putting the shift in drive, "And I passed my driver's test with flying colors."

 

Virgil didn't rebuttal further as Roman drove through his yard and onto the street, just short of trenching the grass— engine revving purposefully. He waited until they were a block away, fingers shaking as he flipped his shortwave set on, adjusting dials accordingly (and to stall).

 

He took a deep breath. Tilting his head up, the night sky winked back at him, millions of stars obscured by the street lights that whirred past them. 

 

He could do this. He clenched his microphone, his knuckles going white. No turning back— only charging forward— head on and walking blindly. What would happen, would happen, and Virgil would just have to adapt to it— push through it.

 

He had no choice— no, he had a choice. He would always have a choice. It was his decision to go on— to face the music of his influential talks. It was all leading up to this moment— walk away; cower like the recreant he was, hiding away in his basement wearing nothing but his boxers— or go down kicking, thrashing, _screaming._ Both forefingers pointing at Sanders High in disgust, commending the school for its foul, incorrigible staff.

 

Tearing his eyes from the sky, his gaze fell to Roman, who was silently focused on the road ahead of them. Bruises glinted and shone in the street lamps' glow, the skin underneath tinted a deeper color— corollary of their previous activities. 

 

Roman was there, he was there with him. Virgil wasn't alone. He turned his mic in his hand, still on and still waiting. Virgil was wasn't alone: hundreds of his peers presumably waiting for his newest, most anticipated peroration. 

 

Virgil took another deep breath. 

 

He had a choice, and his choice was to stand up for those who couldn't get their voices out there. People ignored and turned their heads at teenagers, dismissing their issues and worries and insecurities with rebellious hormones that festered and grew like fungus— unbeknownst to parents, it was their own fault, to begin with. Brush the problems aside. The kids would grow out of it; if they didn't, they weren't good people and they weren't worth it. 

 

What was the point in listening to trouble driven youth? What was there to gain? 

 

If the _grownups_ weren't going to listen to their kids— if they were going to scoff and swat their children's dilemma away— then Virgil would take it in stride. They wouldn't listen to their kids? Well they'd fucking listen to him.

 

Virgil crossed his legs, arm thrown over the backseats' headrest. 

 

"Hi, folks!" Craven greeted cheerfully, "It seems we have a new listener tonight: Mr. Campbell of the F.C.C. Hi, Clark, thanks for coming out."

 

Back at the sheriff's station, Campbell turned to his monitor, a green, moving dot flashing on the grid. "Well, thank you for coming out." he grinned at a fellow F.C.C. member.

 

"Imagine a fucking political hag being in charge of free speech in America." Craven barked, "I bet Campbell was the guy who took names at high school when the teacher was absent."

 

Campbell's eyes twitched. He waved to the officers' radio indignantly, "This is the problem with free speech!" he turned to the group of officer dispatchers that were seated near him, "Would you cut that thing— cut it off!" he demanded, "Would you just turn the damn thing off! He's obviously moving; just pull everything over on wheels!"

 

A dispatcher nodded nervously, quickly relaying the order into their head set.

 

"Welcome to radio free America." Craven said, "America's ready, I'm ready. I want a million voices crying out in the wilderness!" he shouted.

 

The students in the clearing all hollered and cheered.

 

"Jesus, let's get serious." Craven went on, grabbing a manila folder from the passenger seat. "Maybe Mr. Campbell can shed some light on the mysterious disappearance of some of our students." he flipped open the folder, eyes scanning the list of names inside, "Steven Foreman age fifteen, legally kicked out on September 26th. Amanda Berkowitz age sixteen, expelled September 27th."

 

Drãgao clicked her tongue, "So, what does this prove?" she asked rhetorically, legs crossed and head held high, "Not everyone goes to college."

 

O'Brien nodded, head propped in his hand, "Right."

 

Howard's brows pinched as the DJ's list went on, only pausing to throw in little quips. The list of students was extensive— insufferably so. His eyes flit back to Drãgao, "It's quite odd." he said, "All these kids expelled— so close together, too. Were _all_ of them—"

 

"Sir, I can assure you: every one of those delinquents were deserving of their punishments."

 

Howard slowly sat up in his chair, leveling the principal with a disbelieving look. "What accounts?"

 

Drãgao smirked, her crimson lips cracked and thin. She parted those lips to presumably assure her superior (albeit haughtily) but was cut off by a scampering _click clack click clack_ fast approaching, along with biting hollers of some of the precinct's officers.

 

Rounding the corner into their occupied room, Mrs. Williams stood in the adjacent doorway— stack of papers clenched to her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

 

"Mr. Macintosh," she said quickly, stepping forward, "I think you should be aware of something."

 

"Mrs. Williams." Howard said in genuine surprise, eyeing the woman in confusion. "As much as I value your input on—"

 

"You weren't welcome." Drãgao remarked tersely.

 

Mrs. Williams shot Drãgao a heated glare, her gaze cooling before falling back on the commissioner. "I'm sorry, Mr. Macintosh, but there was no way I would have been invited, anyway." with Howard's bewildered expression she went on, "I'm sure you heard about _my_ recent expulsion from Sanders."

 

Howard blinked, mouth falling open in surprise, "What do you mean?" he asked, "You were fired? Who—" he stopped himself, head turning to look at the woman beside him. 

 

Drãgao wore a scowl, nose scrunched and brows pinched.

 

"You fired her?" he accused.

 

Drãgao huffed, "She had it coming."

 

"How?" Howard asked, barely containing his anger, "How did _anyone_ have this coming?"

 

"Mr. Macintosh, if you'd please." Williams spoke up, stepping up closer to the still seated man. 

 

She held her stack of papers out, the bundle thick and held together by a sturdy paperclip. Howard accepted the documents, reading over the first few words as Williams went on, "After the school received the money from the government for every enrolled student, Mrs. Drãgao would then proceed to weed out those she felt were undesirable." she pointed to the inked words— names, along with dates and justification.

 

Drãgao reached out, "Nonsense,” she attempted to snatch the papers away— Howard kept them out of reach, “she doesn't know what she's talking about!”

 

"In the first weeks you flagged all the pupils with low S.A.T. scores and started files on them." Williams went on, "Why?"

 

Drãgao's eyes burned and sizzled in fury, "What are you doing with school property?" she pressed, standing up from her seat.

 

Howard stood as well, "She asked you why." he directed at the principal.

 

Drãgao shrugged, waving her hand, "For extra tutoring."

 

Flipping through the documents, Howard's eyebrows were in his hairline, "You expelled over twenty students in the first thirty days of school."

 

"And how many others did you harass into dropping out?" Williams chimed in.

 

He flipped to another file, "And you kept the expelled students' names on the rolls— that's illegal." 

 

"The money went to the school," Drãgao claimed, "it was all for the good of the school." 

 

"Those kids had rights!" Williams shouted, stabbing a finger at the witch in front of her.

 

Drãgao hissed, "They were losers!"

 

"Trouble makers." O'Brien piped up from his place at the far end table.

 

Travis Taylor shook his head, face pleading, "They're just kids."

 

"I don't regret my policy." Drãgao said evenly.

 

Howard didn't miss a beat, slapping the bundle of documents onto the closest table— the stack thudding solidly on the surface. "It's criminal," Howard said, "and I'm gonna have to let you go."

 

Drãgao was taken aback, hand coming up to lightly touch over her heart, "You can't do that." she growled.

 

Howard gave a firm nod, "Oh, I'm afraid I just did." he then smiled, "Pack up your things; I want your office cleaned out— in two days at the latest."

 

Drãgao could only gape at him, her eyes sweeping over the few staff members in the room. Many couldn't meet her eyes (Taylor being one of them). 

 

She scoffed, loud and from the back of her throat. She stormed out superciliously, holding the rest of her dignity securely as she left the sheriff's station in fast strides. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cop cars, flashing red and blue lights, sirens wailing. Roman drove erratically, twisting and turning down random roads— trying to put distance between the circling Chevrolet Caprices and F.C.C. vans.

 

Virgil was starting to regret not wearing a seatbelt as he slid across the seat treacherously. But he still went on strong, gauging and pulling at the ears of whoever listened. Feeding and nourishing his loyal following with his recalcitrant attitude. No doubt the scream of the sirens could be heard from their radios, that and the loud screeching of the Jeep's tires against the pavement.

 

"You see, they're trying to silence us!" Craven yelled, "We've been calling out to an uncaring, detached, cold monarchy. Well, they're listening now! So let's give them something to shake their heads at."

 

Roman laughed, full and airy.

 

"I want everyone to scream! They won't listen— so we'll make them listen! We'll—"

 

The steering wheel spun sharply— tires crying out and burning rubber as Roman made a sudden turn. "Sorry!" Roman yelled over the howling wind and reverberating sirens, "I can hear them getting closer— shit!" he took a hard left after catching sight of an approaching Chevy. 

 

Virgil tossed and flipped about the seat like a ragdoll, losing grip of his folder in the process— papers flew out and joined him in his floundering. 

 

Roman made another turn, exhaust making a dingy cloud behind them. The next bout of abrupt turns blended in a blur: roaring engine, whirring street lamp, a winking sky and fading red and blue lights. Their bodies lifted off the seats before slamming back down roughly— the front bumper of his mother's Jeep colliding head on into a ditch. The crash knocked the wind out of them, surging them forward and tossing them back— before yanking them again. Virgil held onto the seat in front of him, one hand shooting out to hold onto the front console. 

 

The initial shock took a beat to subside, the two of them gasping and staring ahead with bugging eyes. Papers flit around them from the open roof steadily. 

 

"Shit, Roman!" Virgil shouted, leaning into the front and tilting his head to get a look at the other, "Are you okay?"

 

Roman blinked back to awareness, eyes snapping to Virgil's, "I'm fine." he turned in his seat, hand reaching out to cradle Virgil's cheek, "Are you okay?"

 

"Yeah, yeah."

 

Roman nodded, retracting his hand and twisting back to face the steering wheel. "Hold on, I've got to get us outta' here."

 

Virgil shot him an incredulous look, "Roman, we're stuck." he said, stupefied by the other's continuous persistence.

 

Roman taped the gas pedal, the back tires spinning and digging into the mud, "Well, give me a minute." he shifted into reverse— the Jeep dragging up the steep hill before collapsing forward again. Roman huffed, "Maybe we can push it out."

 

Virgil glanced around their predicament: the Wrangler slumped in a ditch, papers strewn out through the entire vehicle— no doubt littering a path behind them. "Jesus, look at this." Virgil shook his head; he could hear their pursuers in the distance— echoing and overlapping one another. Approaching, slowly but surely: signal locked on to Virgil's shortwave radio. 

 

They were coming— coming to bust them and they were just sitting there waiting. Virgil felt like grinding his teeth in his frustration. Perturbation pulsed under his skin as he anxiously looked at the mess. His hands shook, Roman was still trying to back the Jeep out, and the wailing was getting closer.

 

"Fuck it," he tightened his grip on his microphone, "I'm going on."

 

Roman pressed on the gas again, mud kicking up behind them, "No, I think I got it."

 

Virgil didn't listen, surging to the front seat and capturing Roman's lips in a short kiss. "You should run while you gotta' chance." he mumbled.

 

Virgil knew he was going to be caught, he had already came to terms with it. But Roman had an out: no one knew of their affiliation with each other. If Roman made a break for it no one would ever know. Roman would be safe and Virgil would get all the blame. 

 

Resting their foreheads together, Roman gave a scoff, "I'm the Bonnie to your Clyde." he said with an indisputable grin, "I'm not going anywhere."

 

The proclamation shouldn't have been surprising, yet Virgil chuckled— completely enamored with his dorky getaway driver. Virgil gave him another kiss, sighing through his nose and eyes fluttering shut. Roman kissed back with the same easy contentment, lips quirked in a smile. 

 

Virgil pulled away, grinning down at the other as he stood up, clambering into the front and hefting himself over the windshield. His boots slid a little on the hood, but he kept his balance. His legs shook, knees and thighs quivering in disquie. He gripped his microphone tighter, the long cord trailing behind him and back to the radio. 

 

The sky was winking down at him. 

 

Red and blue lights could be seen behind the tree line. 

 

Virgil took a shaky breath. "Okay, this is really me now," he said, no airy persona lacing his voice, "no more hiding." he said, "Listen we're all worried, we're all in pain, that just comes with having eyes with having ears, but just remember one thing: it can't get any worse, it can only get better.

 

"I mean, high school is the bottom. Being a teenager sucks— but that's the point— surviving it is the whole point." Virgil exhorted forcefully, "Quitting is not going to make you strong— living will. So just hang on and hang in there.

 

"You know, I know all about the hating and the sneering, I'm a member of the 'why bother' generation myself." he went on tempestuously, "But why did I bother coming out here tonight, and why did you? I mean, it's time, it begins with us— not with politicians, the experts or the teachers— but with us: with you and with me; the ones who need it most. 

 

"I believe with everything that's in me that the whole world is begging for healing, even the trees and the earth itself are crying out for it, you can hear it everywhere!"

 

The sirens' shrieking augmented as the flashing red and blue lights got closer, the sound shaking Virgil where he stood.

 

He pushed on, voice raising as he demanded to be louder than the tocsins, "It's the same kind of healing I desperately needed and finally feel has begun with you!" his words started to wobble, the buzzing, chopping of an approaching helicopter. 

 

Wetting his lips, he stood a little straighter, voice rising to a shout, "Everyone mix it up, it's not game over yet! It's just the beginning—  but it's up to you! I'm calling for every kid to seize the air. Steal it, it belongs to you!"

 

The mic's cord undulated in the artificial wind, twisting it around and pushing his hair back. His eyes squinted through the sharp air that licked his face. He screamed into his mic, "Speak out, they can't stop you! Find your voice and use it! Keep this going. Pick a name, go on air. It's your life, take charge of it!"

 

The helicopter's searchlight flicked on with an echoing click, shining its night sun down on the Jeep harshly. Virgil's arm shot out to shield his face, eyes stinging. 

 

"Do it, try it, try anything!" he implored, voice hoarse but still yelling, "Spill your guts out and say ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ a million times if you want to— but _you_ decide!"

 

His footing shook, arms out as he tried to stay balanced. Police cars plowed into the grass, slamming on their brakes a few yards away. A few slid to a stop on the road just beside them. 

 

"Fill the air— steal it. It's yours! Don't let it go! Keep the air alive!"

 

"Arms above your head!" 

 

Virgil eyes darted to the officers that emerged from their vehicles— sweeping over them before snapping to Roman, who was watching him intently. An officer repeated their order, going unheard as Virgil held Roman's stare. 

 

Blood was rushing in Virgil's ears, ringing and pulsing in fluctuant beats of his heart. The red and blue had casted their shine on everything around them, smothering and demanding. Virgil disregarded the demands, jaw set in determination— his spotlight shining down.

 

Virgil raised a fist in the air, hand reaching out to the vast sky above him. The stars nictate, millions of tiny dots, out of reach and obscured by the bright bulbs. But Virgil knew they were there, watching, waiting— waiting to seize the air and take what's theirs. 

 

 And Virgil was all for it, " **TALK HARD!** "

 

 


	19. Cat's In The Cradle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon  
> Little boy blue and the man in the moon  
> 'When you coming home, dad?' 'I don't know when'  
> But we'll get together then  
> You know we'll have a good time then"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a late and messy chapter

* * *

 

 

Still and taut, the room was soundless, save for Virgil's boot tapping against the floor as he bounced his leg. It was cold, the small office's gelid air licking at Virgil's arms through his flannel, leaving his flesh raised with goosebumps. Dimly lit, the tight space was illuminated by a desk lamp, abiding the walls in a sharp yet dull yellow. 

 

The curtains were left open, a portal to the desolate tenebrosity that was outside. Virgil was left staring at the window's glass, his reflection gazing back at him. A coward's face— a scared shitless little kid about to see retribution for his obstreperous actions.

 

He shifted in the uncomfortable chair, snapping his gaze from his reflection and settling on the loops of his shoelaces. 

 

That's all he was, a delinquent, a juvenile hoodlum, a vandal, a criminal. . .

 

Like a lamb waiting for slaughter, Virgil had no choice but to sit and wait for judgment. Forget Sanders Sides' faculty, or the school board— Paradise Hill's police force was his jury; and it was incontrovertible they would declare guilty. 

 

Virgil had never been in deeper shit; arguing with his parents, flunking class, smoking weed— all of that was _nothing_ when held up to his biggest declaration of disobedience. 

 

His shining, blinding spotlight was snuffed out. The audience was silent, put on hold and left in the dark— not knowing if they were paused in an intermission, or if the show just got ripped off air. Loyal listeners sat waiting, whispering to their friends in confusion, impatience, _disappointment._

 

Nails scraping against the denim of his pants, Virgil took a shaky breath. His shoulders were shaking, a trembling shiver that traveled up and down his spine relentlessly. A sharp, pinching buzz that left his blood cold and heart pounding. 

 

All of them, the whole assemblage sat with their foreheads creased, looking at each other with narrowed eyes as they said, "Really? That's it? _That's_ what we've been waiting for?" 

 

Some of them laughed, others growled in their frustration. _What a waste of time_ , they must think, _what  a  sorry  excuse  for—_

 

Virgil's whole left arm jolted, hand jerking back from sudden, foreign contact. He stuttered a gasp, gaze falling to his side as he felt instant regret— watching as Roman's hand retreated. Without questioning it, Virgil grabbed it before it could stray too far, interlocking their fingers and flushing their palms together. 

 

Warm and safe, grounding and familiar. Virgil's mouth was open as he gasped harsh breaths to regulate his breathing. The soft pad of Roman's thumb stroked across his knuckles. Clamping his jaw shut, Virgil breathed through his nose, slowly evening out. 

 

Motionless and tense, the room was silent. The office was cold and just short of being dark. The room was small and the curtains were drawn open. The vastless emptiness watching in without a sound. 

 

Virgil didn't know what to do, what to feel. He wanted to toss one of the heavy desk trinkets into the window— watch the glass shatter upon impact. He wanted to escort Roman out of that cramped room, lead him back to Virgil's place. He wanted to crash in bed, head pillowed against Roman's chest as Roman's fingers carded through his curls. 

 

If only Virgil could squeeze his eyes shut tight, take a deep breath, then open them to see the office was nothing more than a weird dream. To see he was back at his house, nestled in bed with Roman in his arms. 

 

Virgil was so tired.

 

"Who would win in a fight, Ursula or the Wicked Queen from _Snow White_?"

 

Virgil's head whipped to his left, eyes trained on Roman steadfastly, "What?" he asked, brows furrowed.

 

Roman held his stare. Face passive, he repeated himself, "Ursula, or Wicked Queen?"

 

Virgil blinked, "Uhm, uhh." he licked his lips before sputtering his lame answer, "In what context? Are they. . .they on land or in the water?"

 

Pursing his lips, Roman seemed to take the question into consideration. "Hmm, in the water?"

 

Virgil shook his head, "I. . .Even then we won't really know— the movie didn't go into the full— full, uh, extent of The Queen's power."

 

"True." Roman said.

 

"And Ursula lost after a boat stabbed her in the gut." Virgil added.

 

The bow of prince Eric's ship penetrating Ursula's unprotected front. A sharp jab that impaled her, stabbed her effectively enough that it exterminated her, leaving her to rot in her watery grave. Virgil's stomach clenched. His guts were burning— aching, twisting— wrung out and still turning. 

 

"But The Queen died after falling into the sea." Roman supplied.

 

"Yeah." Virgil breathed, leg beginning to bounce again, "Yeah, maybe she can't swim."

 

Submerged, water clogged lungs sputtering for air. Sinking, sinking, sinking, vision going dark. 

 

"Right?" Roman said, "And maybe. . ." 

 

Roman's voice went muffled in Virgil's ears, high pitched and reverberating against his skull. Quiet while being deafening; soothing while being aggravatingly obnoxious.

 

"Everyone saw us." Virgil blurted on a gasp, trying to get air in his drowning lungs.

 

He closed his mouth, contrite with how Roman had gone quiet. He fucked it up— he fucked up; he could add 'interrupting Roman while he was trying to have a conversation' to the list of shit Virgil was paying for. He couldn't bring it in himself to look at him, eyes glued to the rug. The quiet from before seeped into Virgil's bones, tight and overwhelming, Roman's voice ringing in Virgil's ears— he just wanted Roman to speak again. . .

 

Eventually, Roman sighed, "Yeah; I know." it was curt, dry, Roman already coming to terms with it.

 

"How are you so calm?" Virgil asked in a croak.

 

They were so dead— the _both of them._ Roman should have made a break for it when he had the chance. But no, he had to be dramatic and romantic and stay with Virgil to the end. Yet he was taking it in strides, succumbing to fate so easily, hand in Virgil's as he waited for their joint punishment.

 

Roman laughed, an empty, almost panicked sound, "I'm not." he said, "God, Virgil, my parents are gonna kill me. I didn't even tell them I got suspended— I mean they have to know, I'm sure Drãgao called them— but I didn't go home to see. They're gonna kill me, fuck, I'm so dead." Roman's head dropped to his free hand, still gripping Virgil's in his right. "I'm such a disappointment. We wouldn't even be in this mess if I didn't crash the fucking car! Oh, God. . ." he covered his mouth, eyes wide, "I crashed your mom's Jeep! Fuck, holy fuck, I crashed your mom's Jeep. . ." he trailed off in his ramblings, staring off with a mortified look on his face.

 

Virgil gaped at Roman, confounded. Big, brave Roman Prince was afraid to go home and face his own music. Virgil's fearless, insightful, indomitable Roman was scared, too. As awful as it was, it was comforting. The thought was selfish, and Virgil wasn't proud, but to know the person he held with such high regard was _afraid—_ was scared and there with Virgil in his same feelings of guilt— it made Virgil's shoulders ease in relief (if only a little).

 

"Roman." he said, getting his attention, "This is all kinds of fucked, it really is." he paused and licked his lips, "I— I don't know what to say to make you feel better— there's probably nothing I could say to make this better— but— but I want you to know. . .I'm uhh, really, _really_ grateful you're here with me. And, uhm, you didn't have to stay; but you did; and that's. . ." he let out a strangled laugh, "Fuck, that's so _dumb_ of you! You should have ran! Jesus Christ, Roman." he shook his head, "I wouldn't have been upset if you ran, y'know? I didn't. . .I don't want you to be in this mess that _I_ made—"

 

"Well too fucking bad, Virgil!" Roman shouted, Virgil startling at the sudden noise, "I'm here, okay? I was the one who pushed you and pushed you into going on tonight— you didn't even want to! I pushed you to do it! And you said so yourself: that I was your _muse_ , so I am responsible for some of this— and. . .and— and I was your getaway driver, so. . ." Roman's fiery start quickly dimmed down, shoulders slumping and eyes sliding down Virgil to the floor.

 

Virgil laughed again, waving a hand at Roman when he made a face of offense, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just. . ." he huffed a chuckle, "we're such a mess, Roman."

 

A grin pulled on Roman's mouth, fond and sincere, "Yeah, yeah, we are." he said, squeezing Virgil's hand, "But you know what?"

 

Virgil tilted his head, "What?"

 

"I don't regret it. Any of it."

 

Virgil's cheeks flushed, "Yeah?" he asked, the admittance tender as much as it was flustering.

 

"Yeah." Roman said with a nod, "And I'd do it again."

 

Virgil bit his lip, head slumping and hair falling over his eyes shyly, "Shut up."

 

"I would." Roman pressed, ever insistent. "I mean it, Virge." he leaned forward, trying to catch Virgil's eye. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

Virgil's teeth sunk into his lip harder, lest he surge forward and kiss Roman like he wanted to. He wanted to kiss Roman breathless until neither of them could remember the impending doom that was weighing on their shoulders. Lick his way into Roman's mouth and leave them both lightheaded and dizzy, all worries forgotten. 

 

His eyes flit to the office door. 

 

Roman must have been fighting the same urge, pressing a kiss to the back of Virgil's hand: soft and lingering. 

 

"You really know how to show someone a good time." Roman said playfully, lips still hovering over Virgil's skin. 

 

"You're one to talk." he scoffed, chest fluttering from new nerves.

 

Roman's lips brushed across Virgil's knuckles, a shiver trailing up his arm. "Oh?" Roman teased.

 

Virgil shook his head, "Are you still coming over to watch _Black Cauldron_?" he diverted clumsily (certain if he didn't he would have tossed Roman against the large desk and had his way). 

 

Roman nodded, pulling back only slightly, "And to smoke."

 

Virgil nodded in turn, "And to smoke."

 

"If I can sneak out." Roman said, "I have a feeling my parents are gonna crack down hard after this."

 

Virgil turned away, "Everyone saw us." he mumbled, more to himself than to Roman.

 

Everyone had gathered outside the police station, having heard Craven Moorehead had been taken into custody. All eyes were on the Chevrolet Caprices that pulled up, the red and blue lights flashing, sirens on mute. 

 

"Yeah." Roman sighed. 

 

The crowd had hushed significantly as one of the Chevy's back doors opened— two delinquents led out of the vehicle and paraded through the crowd. 

 

"They all know." Virgil uttered, voice shaking, "They all. . .all know that. . .that I. . ."

 

Peers' eyes boring into the pair, meticulous and judging— weighing the two critically. It was so quiet. Smothering and dense. What were they thinking? If only Virgil could peek into every one of their thoughts— hear for himself, how disappointed they all were. 

 

Roman's hand tightened in his, a firm and reassuring hold. "Are you okay?" he said, then winced, "Sorry, stupid question." he mumbled before correcting himself, "I just want you to know that I'm here for you. And you can talk to me; I can bounce some bullshit wisdom with you, or I could just listen; whatever you want, Virge."

 

Virgil smirked, meeting Roman's look, "I like it when you call me that."

 

Roman laughed, placing a small kiss to Virgil's hand again, "Yeah?"

 

"Yeah." Virgil's smile was short lived, faltering before falling altogether. 

 

Letting out a heavy breath, Virgil willed himself to speak, "I almost want to be suspended— or expelled, whatever." he said, "I don't want to go to school and hear what everyone has to say. I already have a clear idea." he sighed, "I just wanna hide in my room and never come out."

 

"Can I hide with you?" Roman asked softly.

 

Virgil laughed, "I was hoping you would."

 

Running his hand through his hair, Virgil pushed his bangs back from his eyes. He held Roman's benign stare with a little difficulty, fighting back the desire to take a glance to Roman's lips. Roman wasn't helping much, his thumb tracing down Virgil's palm, pressing gently against his wrist before traveling back up again. A distraction, though not unwelcome, was what Roman was.

 

And to make matters worse, "I really wanna kiss you, Virge."

 

"Can't you wait?" Virgil asked, despite leaning forward, head tilting as he got closer.

 

"I don't think I can." Roman murmured, his desperation contrived, though no less authentic.

 

Virgil stuttered on a breath, eyes slipping shut. "Someone might walk in. . ."

 

Roman hummed, closing the distance and placing a kiss on Virgil's mouth. "It's a risk I'm willing to take if you are."

 

Virgil chuckled before giving into the kiss. Back and forth, they shared small, chaste pecks and quiet whispers of each others' names. What started as slow and reassuring quickly turned frantic, teeth and tongue and fingers grappling for each others' hair. Virgil could only hope no one in the precinct could hear their joint moans. . .

 

Loud rapping against the door had them both jumping back— scrambling to sit properly, wiping their mouths before folding their hands in their laps. 

 

The two shared a quick look as the doorknob could be heard turning, the hinges creaking as the door was opened and shut. 

 

Virgil kept his eyes trained ahead, watching the reflection in the window as the all too familiar figure approached. Virgil's blood felt cold, his heart working double time to keep it flowing. He was certain his face was as white as his eyes were wide. 

 

Howard Macintosh walked between Roman and Virgil's chairs, not acknowledging either of them. He then turned to face them, leaning back against the desk in a nonchalance that had Virgil grinding his teeth. When his father did meet his eyes, it was with so much discontent. Not that it mattered too much; Virgil was used to that look on his father. 

 

Howard cleared his throat, more to disrupt the quiet than anything, "So," he said, "what do you have to say for yourself?" he asked in that condescending voice of his that Virgil already had the displeasure of hearing many, many times.

 

Virgil could barely remember why he even felt bad, "I'm Craven Moorehead." he said, unembellished and to the point.

 

Howard was visibly surprised by the direct confession (something Virgil couldn't help feel a little pride in), but he was quick to mask it, his attention shifting to Roman, "And you?" he quired, eyes narrowed in an accusatory glare.

 

Virgil watched as Roman stiffened, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly as he shrunk underneath the commissioner's inculpative stare.

 

Waving his hand, Virgil tried to deflect the scrutiny, calling notice to himself, "He— I just dragged him along. I peer pressured him into coming— I needed help setting up the radio."

 

"No, I came willingly." Roman interjected, meeting Virgil's eyes with determination, "And I encouraged him. If anyone was peer pressured, it was Virgil."

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Howard sighed, "Mr. Prince. . .I wouldn't have expected this behavior from you. Skipping class, getting into fights. . .I thought you were going to be a good influence on my son." he turned to Virgil, "I guess it was the opposite, huh?"

 

Virgil all but rolled his eyes.

 

"Virgil, I can not _believe_ you." his father began, another lecture Virgil was dreading, "You've been skipping school, you pirated a radio station, you— you started an uproar in every school in the county!" Howard hollered, arms thrown up as he castigated his son, "There's vandalism in every town 'til Manchester! Kids are running from home and terrorizing the streets, Virgil! They're throwing cherry bombs in the locker rooms and letting off illegal fireworks in the football field! There was a bonfire down in Arlington— students were burning textbooks in the school's courtyard!" 

 

(Virgil shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He should have paid better attention to the news.)

 

"And tonight, oh, don't get me started on tonight, young man!" Howard jabbed a finger towards Virgil, continuing to objurgate him, "You stole your mother's Jeep— you _crashed_ your mother's Jeep."

 

Virgil could see Roman flinch in his peripheral.

 

"We had to call in F.C.C. on you! You ran from the _police_ , Virgil! You're a fugitive— do you think any college is going to let in a fugitive?"

 

Virgil scoffed, and Howard looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel.

 

"This is no joke! Next you're gonna tell me you killed a man!"

 

Crossing his arms, Virgil shrugged, ignoring the heavy thudding in his chest, "Might make everything else look not-so-bad."

 

"So you don't care at all, Virgil? This is all some joke to you, isn't it? I don't understand why you can't take _anything_ seriously anymore." Howard's shoulders slumped as he sighed, "Virgil." he said, "I'm disappointed in you. Son, back in New York—"

 

"This isn't New York!" Virgil snapped, voice raising in a shout, "New York was different— _here_ is different. I'm sorry you can't see that— that this place isn't some perfect utopia like you think it is. The town here is fucked up— the schools here are fucked up. _Everybody_ here is fucked up! 

 

"I can't handle these plastic people and tyrannical faculty. This whole town has been living in a fantasy that everything is perfect. They're all trapped in this hive mind, convinced that everything is okay— fine and dandy! Like everyone isn't falling apart on the inside! They're hiding what's wrong— sweeping it under the rug like it doesn't matter— like everyone isn't brewing and twitching out in stress: to be accepted, to make honor roll, to do everything their parents tell them to: to stay silent when all they want to do is call out and _scream._ " Virgil gave himself a second to breathe, composing himself before going on, " _I_ want to scream, Dad." he admitted, tone firm and sharp. 

 

"I want to scream and show you everything you're not seeing. This isn't the happy go lucky _Paradise Hills_ you wanted so damn bad. This is Hell— and it's the blind 'grown ups' like you that are keeping it this way.

 

"You always ask me what's wrong. And yeah, I never give a straight answer. But that's because you wouldn't listen, anyway." Virgil huffed, forcing himself not to blink, refusing to let his glassy eyes tear up, "I don't regret what I did, or what I said. Nothing would have changed, my peers would have been stuck in the loop— brainwashed just like the last ones— just like _you._ "

 

Virgil shook his head, "None of you get it. This isn't the sixties or the seventies anymore; things are changing— things are always changing!" he paused, leveling an even glare at the man, the school commissioner, his father, "Either get with the times, or get left behind."

 

Mortification. That's what Virgil should have felt after going off on his father like that; he should have been mortified for his open nonobservance— for admitting his misconduct to his father so blatantly. He didn't. Instead he felt relieved, a weight lifted off of his shoulders that left him breathing easier.

 

He watched as his father contemplated his outburst, head low, brows furrowed, lips in thin line.

 

Virgil didn't know what he was expecting— maybe some form of paternal guidance or comfort. For Howard to register Craven Moorehead— his son— wasn't the one as in the wrong as previously adjudged. What he should have been expecting, was the curt and dry response he actually got, "Your mother and I will go over your punishment."

 

Virgil slumped in his seat, head shaking in a mix of disbelief and grievance.

 

"But I can tell you now: I'm taking your radio." Howard added.

 

Virgil scoffed and crossed his arms.

 

Howard sighed, dragging a hand down his face, "We'll discuss everything else at home." 

 

Virgil didn't look up when his father walked by, not even when his hand landed on Virgil's shoulder, or when he muttered a final, "Thank you for being honest with me."

 

But as Howard could be heard walking away, and the door could be heard opening and shutting, Virgil was left feeling as if his words didn't completely fall on deaf ears. 

 

"That was pretty hot, not gonna lie." Roman spoke up, twisting in his seat and scooting closer to Virgil.

 

Virgil covered his mouth to hide his small smile, "Shut up."

 

"But seriously." Roman said, gently touching Virgil's knee, "Are you okay?" he asked.

 

Virgil sighed, hand falling from his mouth as he leaned back in his seat, "Honestly?" he said, "I don't know. When it was all happening it felt so. . .stressful? Relieving? I don't know, It happened so fast, and now that it's over. . .it just feels kind of anticlimactic, you know?"

 

Roman hummed, "At least the brunt of it is over."

 

"All but the punishments." Virgil's head tilted to face Roman fully, "What about you?"

 

"What about me?"

 

"You haven't talked to your parents." Virgil swallowed, "I— I doubt I'd be much help, but I could be there with you when you do have to talk to them."

 

Roman huffed a soft laugh, "My knight in shining armor. Are you gonna protect me from a docked allowance?" 

 

Virgil smiled, "Anything for you."

 

At that, Roman raised a brow, "Anything?" he pressed.

 

Virgil shook his head, looking away as he felt his face heat up, "Within reason."

 

"Is a kiss within reason?"

 

Virgil responded with the requested kiss in question, sighing through his nose at the feeling of Roman's soft, tantalizing lips.

 

"I don't wanna go home. . ." Roman murmured between kisses, "Let's run away. . ."

 

Virgil chuckled against his mouth, "We can go to my place; lock the basement door and turn the TV up really loud."

 

Roman pulled away, Virgil inwardly panicking, wondering if he said something wrong, but Roman simply rested his head on Virgil's shoulder, "Did you mean it?" he asked, "Would you be there for me when I have to talk to my parents."

 

Virgil ran his fingers through Roman's hair, "Yeah, if you want." 

 

Roman's arms encircled his waist (despite the awkward angle with Roman still in the other chair), "Please?"

 

"Yeah." Virgil said, glancing at the room's large window. Virgil stared back at himself, Roman tucked in his reflection's arms, "Yeah." he said, holding him a little tighter, "Yeah; I'll be there."

 

 


End file.
